


The Center of Heaven

by bethfx



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Action/Adventure, F/M, Friendship, Loss, Love, Nobility, Original Character Death(s), Royalty, Tragedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-01
Updated: 2014-11-16
Packaged: 2018-02-23 14:02:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 44
Words: 218,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2550164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bethfx/pseuds/bethfx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In 9:23 Dragon, Sebastian Vael, the third son of the ruling house of Starkhaven was exiled. This is the story of those left behind; of friendship and secrets, of love and terror, and the catastrophic event seven years later that would change everything. Follows known DA canon. I'll be posting three chapters a day for 15 days - 44 chapters total. Thanks for reading! Reviews appreciated!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 9:23 Dragon, Summer

**9:23 Dragon, Summer**

The thing of it was, they were friends. And not because their opulent lifestyles often found them thrown together, nor because their families had been connected since the Towers Age. They had old names steeped in money and wanted for nothing. They had grown up together, learned to walk and talk together, taken their first drinks, rode their first ponies, lifted their first swords and bows and shields together. But they were truly friends.

This was why Samantha and her brother Innley of the Mayweather's, brother and sister duo Ruxton and Flora Harimann, and royal cousins Corbinian and Sebastian Vael had abducted a large hat adorned with peacock feathers, snuck out of the Fortney's party, and clandestinely tiptoed across Starkhaven's granite streets to the Chantry. They had placed the hat atop the marble statue of the Prophetess Andraste, which stood directly behind the Grand Cleric's podium. With luck, no one would notice until service had begun. They had cracked open the bottle of port they had swiped from the party, and drunk most of it in the pews at church – a terribly sinful to do.

They were about to exit through the doors when they heard the familiar sound of clinking metal that always preceded the Starkhaven City Guard's night patrol. Samantha thought it was a wonder they caught any criminals at all, announcing themselves the way they did. Not that she was complaining for it always gave her friends ample time to escape from getting caught.

On this night, they climbed the bell tower of the Chantry, an agonizing three story climb of steep, stone steps. The night air was thick with moisture as Samantha drunkenly tiptoed across the roof with her shoes in one hand and glass of wine in the other. The boning in her corset was giving her fits, and just as she was wondering how she was going to climb down the tree, Flora, her oldest and dearest friend, deftly maneuvered across the shingles past her. Flora flipped her bouncy hair from her shoulder as she passed, giving Samantha a curious wink.

Corbinian was laughing much too loud for prudence once he reached the ground, and lifted his arms to catch Flora, who, as it turned out, didn't need to be caught at all. She looked right at home climbing down the tree in her lavender party dress, ruffles and all. Samantha wasn't as graceful, snagging the bodice of her own sky-blue satin gown on several occasions, finally catching the hem on a stumpy branch and falling to the ground on her rump, a stumble which made everyone laugh ridiculously. The garment likely cost the yearly wage of a farmhand, but they had no concept of wealth; just that they had a lot of it.

Stifling their laughter, they ducked in and out of the shadows as they crossed the smooth stone streets of Starkhaven's richest neighborhood, Granite Circle, so named because of the famous path of granite that ran from the royal palace, passed dozens of noble estates to the center of the neighborhood, and finally encircling a very large and elaborate water fountain with the gentle likeness of Andraste watching over all.

Corbinian leapt into the fountain, the legs of his very expensive suit rolled up to his knees, announcing to the neighborhood that he was going to be the leader of the Royal Army. He used his wineglass, which quickly emptied into the fountain, to demonstrate his sword-skills. Marquess Corbinian was the first son of the Duke of Starkhaven, the prince's brother.

"Beenie couldn't hit water if he fell from a boat," Samantha announced, waving her own glass in the air.

"Hey!" Corbinian pointed a drunken finger at her. "I've never been on a boat!"

Ruxton and Flora, children of the Lord and Lady Harriman of multiple estates in the Free Marches, were laughing so hard they couldn't breathe. Flora, between fits of giggles, kept re-adjusting the flower pinned to her drooping hair. Ruxton, his bowtie retied so that it functioned as an ascot, had laughed so hard that he had fallen onto the ground from a nearby bench. Their brother, Brett, was rarely in their company. Already arranged to be married, he spent much of his time with the family of his betrothed. No doubt they were all still back at the Fortney Estate stiffly nodding to each other in affirmation of their position and wealth.

"That could be arranged," Sebastian Vael offered with a sly smile, his long overcoat was open, his tie removed and discarded somewhere along the way, and his shirt unbuttoned halfway down. Sebastian was the youngest prince, the third son of the ruling royal family of Starkhaven.

"You hear that, Andraste?" Innley, his golden doublet stained with wine and half-unlaced, lifted his hands to the giant statue of the warrior prophetess that stood atop the fountain. "The son of the prince of Starkhaven wishes the Minanter to flood! See about that, will you?"

Sebastian jumped onto the rim of the fountain, "Do not speak to her, foul drunkard!" he hiccupped. "I'll not have you disparage the Maker's bride!"

"Blasphemer!" Samantha laughed as she pointed at her brother. Long wisps of her deep brown hair came loose from the elaborate hairstyle that her maids had spent over two hours configuring, and tumbled over her shoulders.

"Yeah!" Corbinian brought his feet down into the water again and again, splashing it up. "Throw him in the royal dungeons!"

It was at that moment that Corbinian slipped and fell rear-first into the fountain and water sloshed over the sides onto the granite pathway. The group fell into riotous laughter at that, and Ruxton dropped the wine bottle, which smashed gloriously upon the granite as well, its contents exploding outwards in a cascade of red that sprayed him, his sister, and Innley… only adding to the stains on his doublet.

"What's going on out here?" an unfamiliar voice chimed in.

The wine had erased their caution for getting caught, and they turned wide-eyed to the two men in suits of shiny armor that appeared from out of nowhere. The shield on their backs carried the flag of the city guard and the swords in their hands indicated that they meant business. One carried a scowl that ran deep lines between his brows.

"Worry not, my good men," Sebastian said, still atop the fountain.  He turned about and showed the official seal of the prince of Starkhaven that had been embroidered on the lapel his long coat. "Everything is under control here!"

"Your Highness," the guard said flatly. "You'd better come down from there."

"Run for it!" Corbinian called out, scrambling out of the fountain.

The others followed his lead without question, skipping into the shadows of Granite Circle. Innley pulled Flora along and Ruxton wasn't far behind as they disappeared between two estates. Samantha tripped over the hem of her ripped gown, twisting her ankle but laughing through it, and Sebastian paused to help her up, scrambling after Corbinian as they raced through the park. The guardsmen didn't give chase, even though the trail of loud laughter would have been easy to follow.

They maneuvered this way and that, around a corner and straight through another square with a statue to Corin, the Grey Warden who killed the archdemon Zazikel during the Second Blight. Samantha left her wine glass sitting upright atop his boot and the trio laughed again as they jogged out from under the lamplight.

Corbinian stumbled up against a marble column, his pants still rolled up to his knees. "Oh, I don't feel so good," he moaned. And then he vomited on the polished granite path.

Sebastian laughed at him, and dropped his glass to the granite, which exploded like cymbals crashing together. He wrapped a thick arm around Samantha's slim waist, holding her off her ankle while she threw her head back in drunken revelry. The last of her elaborate hair-twisting finally came loose and fell down her back. Sebastian looked down at her as she looked to a groaning Corbinian.

Though just fifteen, Sebastian was known for his charm with the fairer sex. Samantha had seen him sneak off from more parties than she could count, always with some girl on his arm.  Local gentry, nobles' daughters, visiting heiresses… no title went unrewarded, though he could never remember any of their names. Yet he had never stared down at her like he was doing now, his hand around her waist and the intensity of his blue eyes masked in the shadow of his brow under the lamplight. He had once waved the notion away with a drunken hand, claiming she and Flora were like younger sisters but, at almost-fifteen, she was stretching her way into womanhood fast. And it wasn't going unnoticed.

"I think Beenie is going to pass out," Samantha laughed drunkenly.

"Can you walk?" he asked quietly through a smile.

She shook her head, giggling. "My ankle is killing me!"

And then he kissed her.

He was very drunk, but so was she, though later she wouldn't be able to tell if she had actually kissed him back or just let him kiss her. His mouth was warm and wet, and she imagined she tasted much like he did; there was the famous Starkhaven Fish Pie that they had eaten at the party, a chocolate mousse for dessert, and of course the rich wine. She could smell the remnants of his cologne mixed with sweat and other spices, too. The trees and the dirt of the city park came into the mix somehow, but only just.

He kissed with passion, though he was perhaps too ardent in his affection. His shoulders rose and fell as he crushed her to his chest and she grew more uncomfortable by the second as her swelling ankle started to throb as she tried to avoid placing pressure on it. She was keenly aware of his body even in her wine-dulled state; she could feel the heat of his half-exposed chest against her breasts while his hands ran down her back and over her shoulders, across her neck and down over her chest. He squeezed and the sudden flare of pain made her cry out. She was certain she said _don't_ or something to that effect, but Sebastian kissed her harder, pulling on the front of her dress. It was then she realized that he was trying to touch her underneath her dress – right here in the streets of Granite Circle! She squirmed and made more noises, but he was strong, and her efforts to get him to stop were going ignored so she did the only thing she could. She bit him.

"Ow!" He pushed her back, bringing a hand to his bleeding lip. "You bit me!"

"What did you think you were doing?" she demanded. The seams along the sides of her dress were threaded loose, and the bodice gaped open; she had to hold up the front, lest she expose herself.

"You are a child," he slurred drunkenly before he turned and stormed away, his jacket billowing behind him.

He was leaving? He was leaving! There she was, her dress torn, her ankle swelling, and he was just going to walk away? What a brute! The nerve! The insolence! The utter--! Corbinian groaned. She hobbled on her ankle, gripping the lamppost to keep steady, and turned around in circles until she spotted him slumped down on the steps to a very large estate. In her haze, she thought it was Lord Garrity's. Samantha called to Beenie, but he didn't respond, at least no coherently. His lids were red, the skin around his eyes puffy, and his hair was matted with drunken sweat. He was in no shape to help her, let alone himself. She could only let out a curse under her breath. She didn't want to leave him there, but she didn't have much choice. If the guards came by, she would be in far more trouble than he, and if they didn't, she felt very close to passing out from all the alcohol she had consumed. No, she had to move. Maybe she could get home before her parents made it back from the party. She could send a servant for Corbinian. Yes, that was what she would do. Sebastian was going to pay for this. He was going to be her slave for at least a week to make up for this, Samantha swore to herself. If anything, Corbinian would sweat the regret from Sebastian in the training yards.

So, with her tattered dress and her ankle turning more stiff and painful with each passing moment, she hobbled until she couldn't put any weight on it at all, falling to her knees and crawling through the streets. She was still drunk, and had to stop and vomit once which made the experience even more humiliating. But it was nothing compared to the reception from her parents as she was carried in through the front door by her house servants. She had not beaten them home after all.

She was a terrible liar, but she still tried. She told them it was just a bit of harmless fun, a walk through the evening streets to catch some air, she said. She slipped in her fancy shoes and her dress got caught on a fence – it was all so innocent, really. No, really! They didn't buy it, of course. The city guard had been by about ten minutes earlier, informing Lord and Lady Mayweather that their daughter and son were both observed drunken and disorderly in the town's center, debasing the most holy statue of the prophetess Andraste, an unfathomable offense in the eyes of the Maker. Innley, of course, was not home yet.

Her ankle was killing her, and when it became clear to her parents that she could not stand on it, they had servants carry her up to her chambers where a maid washed her up, dressed her in nightclothes, and put her to bed.

Samantha woke the next morning to the worst headache imaginable. Her parents had sent up a modest breakfast along with instructions that she was not to leave her quarters. Not that it would have mattered; her ankle had swollen to the size of an apple and the slightest amount of pressure was so painful that she couldn't breathe. They had at least been kind enough to include a tonic for the headache.

Samantha spent the entirety of the next day laid up in bed with her foot propped up on pillows. She hadn't heard from her brother, from Corbinian, from Flora or Ruxton, and not from Sebastian, though she fully expected to hear from him. A formal letter emblazoned with the official seal of the prince of Starkhaven would arrive at any moment, she suspected. Surely, Corbinian would remind him of the previous night if he failed to remember, and he would be monumentally embarrassed by his impropriety. Sure, they had both been intoxicated, but that didn't excuse his absolutely ungentlemanly behavior. Ripping her dress like that… But a letter never came. Not the next day, either. Neither had her brother.

Samantha asked the maids about Innley, who hadn’t come by her room even once, but the elvish girls wouldn't look her in the eye or answer . She knew they spoke the common tongue, but perhaps her parents had instructed them to refuse her questions.

On the third day, she was able to move from her bed to her sitting desk by the window, and in her boredom, she stared out longingly over the gardens of her parent's estate. Why wouldn't Sebastian send an apology? Where was her brother? Why wouldn't anyone _talk_ to her?

On the fourth day, she heard a rustling outside her window, and it was somewhat of a struggle to undo the latch and open it out wide, but she forgot about her pain when she saw Flora and Ruxton climbing the tresses.

"There you are!" She smiled at them both. "It's about time someone came to see me."

Ruxton's head popped out from behind Flora, who appeared to be an adept climber. "Yes, well, you're under house arrest, but a bit of espionage and some cunning and here we are!"

His smile was enigmatic, and she couldn't believe how happy she was to see them. They climbed in through the window and hugged her hello. Flora eyed her foot propped up on the chair.

"Does it hurt badly?" she asked girlishly.

"Terribly," Samantha said dramatically, and they all snickered. "How much trouble did you two get into?"

"Severe trouble," Ruxton stated solemnly.

"Indeed." Flora sighed. "My mother isn't going to buy me that white velvet dress that I wanted. I'll have to wear last year's fashions to your name day party! And Ruxton isn't allowed to ride his horse for a tenday! I don't see why they have to be so severe. It was just a bit of fun!"

Samantha rolled her eyes. Noble parents were overly concerned with how everything looked. The truth never mattered.

"You are the talk of the town, Sammie." Flora's eyes twinkled. "They say that Sebastian and Beenie engaged in a duel over you! What happened?"

"What? What duel?"

"Someone saw Sebastian with a cut lip and two black eyes. Beenie's eyes were black too and he was walking with a cane. I knew those boys had it for you."

The cut lip Samantha remembered, but the black eyes, she did not. Clearly, the rumor mill was hard at work. "There was no fight," Samantha said. "Sebastian evaded the guards last I saw, and Beenie passed out on the steps of… I think it was the Garrity's!" She paused for a moment. "Have you seen them?"

"No," Ruxton responded distantly, inspecting the little glass bottles of perfume that lined her vanity. "The prince of Starkhaven is said to be very upset at his son. Who knows about Beenie. His father is not even in town."

"Oh…"

"By the way…." Flora lowered her voice and eyed the door. "Why didn’t you tell us about Innley?"

"That he's a daft monkey? I thought that was obvious."

"Too true." Ruxton spoke absentmindedly as he fiddled with the perfume bottles on her vanity, flinching as one spritzed his face unexpectedly.

"No!" Flora lowered her voice even more. "That he was a mage."

Flora's words hung in the air.

"What?"

"You two are thick as thieves! I'm so impressed that you kept that secret for so long!"

"A mage?"

"Well, he's done it, because the guard saw him last night. It's probably well known by now. I'm sure Lady Luxley is crying into her tea; she had eyes to match her daughter with him."

"Don't make her feel bad, sister." Ruxton lifted a pair of Samantha's underthings from an open drawer and then put them back stealthily. "Every family has a bad apple. Can't blame the rest of them for it."

Samantha was sure that her face was turning white. Her brother? A mage? Innley? And no one had told her? He had never told her? They said that the _gift_ of magic usually manifested itself at a very young age, sometimes as young as three but never older than eight or nine. Innley was thirteen, and he had never told her? His own sister! Samantha felt too much to give a proper answer: confusion, anger, betrayal, sadness.

"Sammie?" Ruxton plopped down on the bed.

"I didn't know."

"Oh."

Flora reached for her hands. "I'm sure your father will keep him out of the Circle. I mean, you are the Mayweathers."

"Our father would send us to the Circle without hesitation!" Ruxton laughed. "Right git, that man."

Flora laughed and Samantha couldn't help but break from her thoughts. He was right about his father, though. His mind was often elsewhere, and it was a well-known fact in Granite Circle that their mother, Lady Johane Harriman, made all the important decisions in that household. Some had even whispered that she had a mage in her employ to exact her influence over Lord Harimann. But these were just rumors, often spread by the jealous nobles of Starkhaven.

"But your mother—"

"Would probably be glad to have the house all to herself!" Flora finished, laughing.

Samantha smiled weakly; at least they were trying to cheer her up.

Unfortunately, their visit was cut short by the servants; at the sound of footsteps on the stairs, Samantha had to rush her friends back out of the window, the way they’d come. Part of her punishment for her terribly embarrassing behavior was that she wasn't allowed visits from her friends. And when they were gone, she went back to staring out at the gardens.

After a week of eating her meals alone and sparse visits from Flora and Ruxton through her window, Samantha was finally allowed to rejoin her family outside of her room. There was still no word from the Vael cousins, nor about her brother. Where was Innley now? Was Corbinian alright? And where was Sebastian's apology? Knowing his father, he would have been forced to write the letter. Right?

That night at dinner, which was too quiet, Samantha sat alone along the length of a too-long table. Her parents sat on either end. Her brother's chair wasn't even drawn up to the table. The house servants lined the walls of the room, standing solemnly as always, ready to refill their glasses with wine and hand them clean silver should they drop their fork on the floor.

After what seemed like forever, Samantha spoke up. "Mother. Father. I would like to apologize." As if waiting for this, they both lowered their silver to the table and looked to her expectantly. She rose and clasped her hands together. "I am very sorry for my immensely poor judgment and unseemly behavior. I am the daughter of the Lord and Lady Mayweather, a name that is synonymous with good breeding, manners, and impeccable character. I have done my family a great disservice and I humbly ask for your forgiveness. If I can do anything to restore our good name, I will do it."

"A fine apology and well spoken," her mother said gently, looking to her husband with hopeful eyes.

His face hardened, and he gave her a lingering glare before finally relenting. "All right, then."

And then they all picked up their silver and finished their meal. 

After dinner, they retired to the sitting room; a high-ceilinged chamber lined with dark wooden bookcases. A thick red rug with intricate pattern of vines stretched the length of the floor. Samantha settled herself on the divan, a plush sofa made of red velvet with a dark wood. A servant appeared, the candlelight glinting off of his tray, which he lowered to Samantha, offering her a small cup of tea. She waved it away, staring at her mother from across the room.

Her mother sat at a writing desk, quill in hand, with a stack of stationary in front of her. Lady Mayweather wrote a huge number of letters, responding to invitations and corresponding with nobles in Starkhaven or faraway places like Cumberland, Kirkwall, and even Orlais. Her mother loved the fashions of Orlais; of course, anyone who had any taste at all loved the fashions of Orlais.

Normally, her father would hand her a book and she was expected to read for two hours and then be able to talk about what she read with him. Tonight, as he examined the shelves, Samantha sat anxiously.

"Father," she respectfully called as he stood at the bookshelf with his reading glasses held up to his eyes. "I want to ask about Innley."

Her mother's writing ceased with a harsh scratch and she sighed, setting the paper aside and beginning anew.

"We will not speak of him," her father said dismissively as he removed a thick volume from one of the higher shelves.

"So, is it true that he is a mage," her words were met with silence. "Why was I not told?"

"You were injured and resting. We didn't think it prudent to interrupt your healing."

"But father… I would have preferred to know."

"Your preference isn't our concern," he turned a crinkled page. "Your education and position in society is."

"Whatever he did, I'm sure it was a misunderstanding!" Samantha tried to sound diplomatic.

"Whatever he did sent him to the Circle. And need I remind you of your own behavior that night? Public intoxication! Spilling wine into the fountain of Andraste! Ripping up your dress! You came home looking like a common streetwalker!"

Samantha lowered her gaze back into her lap.

"We will not speak of him," her father said again, but not as calmly as before.

"But… " _But he is family!_ She wanted to scream, instead she held it in. "Can I visit him?"

"No."

She stared at them both. "Why not?"

"He is mage, darling," her mother said gently. "He's dangerous."

"He is Innley! He wouldn't harm anyone!"

"My darling Samantha, you don't understand magic. The Circle will keep him safe, not just from himself, but keep us safe from him."

"But mother—!"

"He'd been keeping it hidden from all of us!" Her father lowered his reading glasses, giving her a stern look. "No doubt the influence of a demon. I've seen firsthand what magic can do, and he needs to be locked up. All mages do."

"But not Innley—!"

" _Enough_." Her father's voice bounced off the walls of the room.

There was no arguing with him, and Samantha's face twisted in the sadness of losing her baby brother. She wasn't alive back when Adain escaped the Starkhaven Circle. Her father had been a young boy then. He had recounted the story of Adain of Starkhaven, a powerful mage that had escaped from the Circle in the winter of 8:76 Blessed, just fortyseven years agoand the coldest winter that the Free Marches had seen in decades. The story was that Adain broke out of the Circle during a blizzard, killing more than a dozen templars and mages alike as he fled into the white night. And those deaths were bloody. Storytellers loved to elaborate on how Adain made anyone who got in his way suffer needlessly. He had been almost inhuman, they said, and the streets had run red with blood and the sky darkened for weeks after his passing, as if he was issuing a threat with the elements of nature themselves. Some said he had even crafted the blizzard that suffocated the city.

They say the templars chased after him, but that's often disputed in retellings. When the spring thawed the lands, the templars mounted the hunt in earnest using his phylactery to track him into the Vimmark Mountains. But out of more than two-dozen Templars hat left that spring, only two returned by the end of summer and they declared the hunt over. Adain had prepared for them, and resorted to blood magic – the most foul of all magic – and the two templars that returned were never the same. They babbled of demons and horrors unimaginable until one of them took the other's life before his ending own on winter's night some ten years later. They wouldn't hear another breath about Adain until rumors of his passing reached Starkhaven sometime in the early Dragon Age. Even then, the stories about his memoirs hinted at research, offspring, and brutal killings…

The people of Starkhaven didn't like to talk about Adain much; it didn't do to dwell on nightmares, after all. But the Chantry's liked to speak of him often as he was their token reminder for why the Templars and the Circle were necessary. Her father agreed with them. His views on mages and magic had been fundamentally shaped by this event.

There was nothing left to say in Innley's defense, so she sat silently, her hands together in her lap and her spine straight and proper, just like a lady. She blinked back her tears and tried very hard to hold it together to the sounds of her mother's quill scratching across paper, thin pages crinkling as her father turned them, the crackling fireplace, and the candles that silently cast all their shadows across the room.

With her lips quivering, she finally asked her mother, "Have any letters come for me?"

"No, darling." The quill worked busily against the parchment. _Scratch scratch scratch_. "Were you expecting any?"

"Yes, perhaps..." She swallowed hard. "From Sebastian Vael? Or his cousin Corbinian?"

"No. " S _cratch scratch scratch._

"I wouldn't expect we will hear from Sebastian," her father said solemnly. "He has been sent to the Chantry in Kirkwall."

Samantha’s mouth opened, then closed, then opened again. "Wh-what?"

"He was a disgrace to the royal name." Her father handed her a book, it thumped heavily into her lap. "Hopefully, the Chantry can teach him a thing or two about being a man."

"He's gone?" Her eyes widened, still disbelieving. "Sebastian Vael is gone?"

"Don't sound so surprised, darling." Her mother always spoke so warmly, which belied all the coldness of her words. "The way he acted, the influence he had upon you and the Harimann's children…"

She couldn't really hear her mother ramble on and on about the Vael family and how ashamed they all were of their outcast son: drinking and whoring and lying… and his filthy mouth! If only her parents knew about her! If only they knew about them all.

"What about Corbinian?"

"Who knows," her father groaned. "His father is out of town, but I am sure a similar fate awaits."

Her heart sank deep into her chest. How could this have happened? First Sebastian and then Corbinian? Her eyelids suddenly felt heavy, like she might faint. She gripped something that felt hard and worn like leather. Yes, of course, the book. The book was still in her hands and she carefully turned it over. _The Sermons of Divine Renata I._ Inwardly, she lamented how boring this read was going to be, prompting another fit of silent despair to crawl up into her throat.

They had all been sent away. Corbinian. Sebastian. Innley. Exiled from their own families.

It would be a year before she would see or hear from any of them again.

 


	2. 9:24 Dragon, Summer

**9:24 Dragon, Summer**

Samantha had plenty of time to ruminate over her actions that night for the entirety of Granite Circle wouldn't stop talking on the matter. In an ironic twist, her ploy to sneak through the neighborhood unseen had turned her into the talk of the town. All the gossip and whispering made her feel foolish, and then thoughts of the way Sebastian had groped her bullied her further; she shuddered to think of what may have happened if a less honorable boy been present, or worse, had she been too inebriated to fight him off. Of course, that wasn't her fault, but drunkenly sneaking around Granite Circle was. Perhaps the harsher lesson was that she was not immune to the judgment of her neighbors because of her name or the name of those in her company.

The name Mayweather was well respected in Starkhaven… or it had been. It took a year of curtsying and apologizing and praying in the Chantry before the nobles of Granite Circle stopped whispering behind her back, spreading salacious rumors about her wild night of debauchery with Sebastian and Corbinian. Samantha secretly delighted in the rumors, for the stories were far grander than what had actually happened. To hear them tell it, she had danced in the Fountain of Andraste stark naked – the freedom to commit to such an act! Her mother managed to spin the tales around to a night of harmless fun mired by the effects of youth and alcohol – such a dull story was far closer to the truth.

Though the Vael boys were known as a bit wild in quieter circles, it was in stark contrast to the family, whom had always taken their occupation quite seriously. Some other royal families in the Free Marches were content to preside over elaborate competitions and pageants, but the Prince of Starkhaven had taken a far more active role in governing, forming a strong partnership with the Grand Cleric and the Chantry – especially after that whole business with Adain.

For some silly reason, Samantha had always thought that if she were with the Vaels – no matter which ones – she would be immune to trouble. They _were_ royalty. It seemed absurd that they would be made a spectacle; even more ridiculous that they should have been sent away. The very idea of it was foreign. Sebastian was the third son, and it was assumed that he would lead the archery regiments. He was an archer of considerable skill; he could hit the eye-slit of a helmet from the tops of the ramparts of the royal palace of Starkhaven, and that was saying something. One night, he had bragged that his grandfather was going to gift him a longbow that had been in the family for generations. _As soon as I get good enough_ , he had said. Ruxton had made terrible fun of him for finally taking something seriously, but for all his worldliness, Sebastian had this endearing way of not realizing when he was being mocked. When he got his eyes on something, it was hard to get him to look away.

His cousin Corbinian would, of course, lead the Royal Army. Corbinian was quite skilled with the sword. Samantha smiled every time she remembered watching him train in the courtyard with his other cousins and brother. Sometimes Ruxton would join in but, truthfully, the Harimanns’ son just wanted to lounge and be merry and read books. He said as much on a regular basis. But aside from the straining and the sweating, he turned into a plank of wood around the girls who would watch. Much too shy, Ruxton had so little experience with the opposite sex, many considered him a prude.

Despite the suddenness of their leaving, the pair was never far from her thoughts. Whenever she would visit with Flora and Ruxton, they were always talking about Sebastian and Corbinian, but there was never a word of where they were, what they were doing or if they ever visited Starkhaven. She had casually asked her mother about it only to receive vagaries and hearsay.

This is why it was a great surprise to the entirety of Granite Circle for Corbinian to simply reappear just over a year later.

He arrived with the entire royal family to Chantry service at midsummer. There was no welcome-back-banquet, no announcement, and no cards. He was sitting across the row surrounded by his family, and Samantha had a hard time removing her eyes from him. If she had ever suspected that she felt nothing for him at any point in her life, simply _seeing_ him was enough to correct her. When she caught him smirking at her from across the pews it was all she could not to squeal like a little girl.

Grand Cleric Francesca was giving a sermon on the dangers of magic, which wasn't unusual. Innley was still the talk of Granite Circle, and Samantha was rather annoyed that her father seemed to hope the rest of the neighborhood could erase her brother from their minds as simply as he did.

Francesca began stoically, her voice bouncing from the high ceiling to the stained-glass windows. "A mage who does not receive the teachings of the Circle and who does not have the words of Andraste in her heart is an apostate, and a danger to us all. Without the guidance of the holy Chantry, a mage may foolishly dabble in the darker arts—blood magic, or demon summoning, thus becoming maleficarum. We all remember what happened with Adain."

Thoughts of Innley were interrupted when Corbinian lifted his finger to his brow pretending to scratch, and from beneath his hand he shot Samantha another look. With her chest heaving, it was everything she could do to remain still, her hands in her lap.

"And a mage's mind will ever be a doorway to spirits of the Fade; without proper instruction, this doorway remains open and unsecured. If a demon should come through this doorway and possess a mage, an abomination is created. Abominations know only madness. They cannot be reasoned with and will slaughter man, woman and child without thought. Whole cities have fallen to these creatures. Thousands have died at their hands. The Chantry and her Templars have a duty to ensure that this does not happen."

He mouthed something to her and she squinted at him, trying to convey that she didn't catch it, and so with a cursory glance to his mother who was seated beside him, he then pointed to his own chest and mouthed it again: _What color?_

He was asking about her underthings! She could feel her cheeks growing hot, and she playfully narrowed her eyes at him – what a scoundrel!

"If I knew a better way to deal with magic, I would seize upon it immediately. But we cannot let the mages guard themselves. We only need to look at the Tevinter Imperium and their lack of restraint. Without Chantry oversight the magisters abuse their power. Those without magic are trampled underfoot and forced to serve."

Corbinian looked back to her again and winked. Samantha shot him a fierce look; he was being so naughty! And in church! If only she could feel offended, but truthfully, every muscle in her face wanted to smile. Her father frowned at her briefly and she refocused on the Grand Cleric.

"Imagine your children growing up in such a world. If a mage asked it of you, you would have to give him your daughter, not knowing what his plans for her might be. You could not resist him, and neither could she. Without our templars and without the Circle, the common man would have no defense against magic. Many understand that we do what we do for their own good. Now, let us pray together."

The congregation stood up, and Samantha looked over to Corbinian amongst the safety of the standing crowd. He was watching her steadily, with a curious little smile playing on his lips, before he closed those Vael-family blue eyes, turned his head, and began to pray.

After the prayers and the singing and the moment of silence for the fallen faithful all over the Free Marches, the high nobility of Starkhaven were released and it was during this time that Samantha was always allowed to socialize with her friends. She didn't wait for her father or mother to give her permission; she shot through the aisles. Corbinian was hugging Flora and Ruxton and several others who had run to welcome him back, but when he saw Samantha heading over, he left them and came to meet her halfway. His smile positively killed her.

He took her hands; his were warm and rough, and Samantha wondered just what he had done in the last year to make them that way, but when he spoke, she forgot about them. "Well, hello there."

She curtsied. "You look well."

"I've had some time to recover, yes. And I've been ordered to apologize for my truly atrocious behavior on that night, though it was amusing to you, I am sure. My apology to Lord Garrity was perhaps the most eloquent letter I've ever written, if I do say so myself."

"Well done, messere," she said, smiling sweetly as her parents were watching.

"I heard you injured your ankle," he said mischievously, never looking away. "Admittedly, I have little memory of it."

"It's fine." She liked that he remembered. "All healed. I'll be able to dance like a harlot at my name day party."

"Excellent." He held out his arm for her to take. "Do wear those lace underthings you keep hidden in your vanity. I promised the Kendalls a good show."

"I'll consider it. But only because Lord Kendall is such a romantic."

Corbinian stifled a laugh, mostly because Lord Kendall was ninety years old and was always yelling _what_ to the young people with an earhorn in his ear.

The sunshine greeted them as they began their stroll about town. It was something that the nobles of Starkhaven had been doing for centuries. After service, they would all take a nice leisurely walk through town and greet each other politely before taking brunch. Samantha had loved these walks with Corbinian on one arm and Sebastian on the other, but that was all going to change now. It would be just Corbinian today, now and forever more.

"So when are we going to visit Innley?" He led her out of the chantry, and it was like the year that passed had been erased. Like no time had passed at all.

"They won't let me."

"Of course. But you know that I can."

Of course he could. She squinted at him in the late morning sun; its warm light danced on the top of his auburn hair that all the Vaels had, and she searched her mind for a memory where there was ever a Vael more beautiful. She couldn't find one. "Where have you been?"

"Oh, here and there." He winked, which was slightly infuriating.

"Beenie!"

He chuckled. "Nevarra City."

"Whatever for?"

"My mother's sister's family live there."

Samantha raised an eyebrow. "How tenuous."

"Well, she's my mother's last surviving family. And her family is more… strict. I was given an education of sorts."

"Oh?" she asked playfully. "Did they cure you?"

"Let's just say that I understand what I did. And I know why I was sent away. And also why I was allowed to return." He glanced at her. "Sebastian wasn't as fortunate."

"I heard about that." She looked ahead down the granite path. "Did you see him before he left?"

"Briefly. He's in Kirkwall now. I received a letter from him a few months ago."

That stung; apparently he could write to Corbinian, but couldn't craft a letter to her? One of his oldest friends? And after what had happened? Somehow that was more insulting than what he had done to her.

Corbinian continued: "Said Kirkwall was a different town. Simpler. And he hoped his stay there would be short. But his parents aren't like mine, and I don't think he gets it."

"What? That his parents gave him away? That he's stuck there, likely forever? To live a pious and chaste life in service to the Maker?"

"Yes, yes, and yes. I think you just about covered it." Corbinian placed his hand over hers as she sighed. "I think they were planning it for a while. Probably had the arrangement all set up weeks before."

"But how could they just… get rid of him like that?" Samantha protested, her mind filling with thoughts of Innley.

"Well, he is a rather wild boy."

She snickered. "Right. A lone wolf, crazed in a sea of sheep!"

"I assume you mean we are the sheep?" He scratched his chin. "I always figured myself for a fox. Something small and fluffy and sly—" She elbowed him then, smiling, but he just shook his head. "For some reason, the people of this town think that he and I got into a duel." They paused at the fountain of Andraste and he looked down at her. "Over you."

"Is that what they say?" she teased. She had heard this rumor quite often over the last year.

He leaned down to murmur in her ear, the whole town watching. "Probably more like whispers. Under handkerchiefs and soft lighting."

"Do be careful, Beenie," she muttered, as his breath tickled her neck. "You will give me the vapors!"

"An impossibility," he announced, pulling away. "I know how Lord Kendall holds your heart."

She laughed loudly then and all the nobles paused to watch the two teenagers at the fountain of Andraste where, a year ago, they had defiled it with their wretched vice and sin.

"He had a nasty cut on his lip." Corbinian stared into her with his impossibly blue eyes.

"Maybe he fell." She offered up her own amber eyes in response.

"On his lip?" he smirked. "An impressive maneuver, to be sure. I'll be sure to get him to teach me when I visit."

She just shrugged with a sly little smile.

"Coy little minx." He laughed. "You realize that I do remember some things."

"Oh? And what do you remember?"

"I'm serious, Sammie."

"You're never serious, Beenie. And I'm fine! I mean, look at me!"

"I've _been_ looking at you." He smiled again, and the whiteness of his teeth contrasted with the brown of his skin and she decided then and there under the Maker's sun that he was definitely more beautiful than Sebastian. There was a cough somewhere in the crowd of nobles that had gathered and were pretending not to be eavesdropping. When Corbinian noticed them as well, he lifted his arm to her again as they continue to walk.

"Your name day party is coming up," he said casually. "You're going to save me a dance?"

"Maybe after Lord Kendall."

"Ah, so you are starting with the most attractive man and working your way down? A wise course."

"A name day tradition in my family."

"Yes, I remember your mother dancing with Lord Robaire last year."

She laughed again; Lord Robaire was heir to the Fortney estate, the richest in Starkhaven behind Vael's, but she was laughing because Lord Robaire was about eight years old.

When they reached the gates of her estate he turned to her and offered a deep bow. She curtsied in return and held out her hand regally and Corbinian chuckled when presented with it but lifted his fingers into her palm, leaning down to kiss the back. It had been so long since he had done that, it felt at once familiar and new. His hand were bigger than hers and the side of his fingers were more rough than she remembered, yet the way he kissed her hand was entirely different than all those other times. It was intimate, as if he was kissing more than her hand.

 When he stood back up, he released her hand but took a step closer, his voice quiet. "If I weren't a newly reformed gentleman, I would kiss you somewhere else." He slipped his hands lightly into his pockets.

"Is that so?" With her hands clasped behind her back she looked up at him innocently, but it was all a great big lie. "On this most holy day? Right after church service?"

"With the Maker's name on my lips."

"I never pegged you for a romantic."

"I apprenticed with Lord Kendall."

She tried to hide her smile. "Where would you kiss me?"

"I would kiss you on your neck right behind your ear." He spoke so promptly, without thinking about it, like he had it planned, and as his eyes burned into her, lighting a trail of flame from that place on her neck down to her navel. Corbinian lifted his right hand from his pocket. "Then I would place this hand on your back, right where your shoulder meets your spine, and slide upwards, until I had your hair in my hands."

He had never spoken to her this way before and her body reacted with verve, lighting up with waves of sensation and she could imagine a thousand things that he could do to her in that moment that she would allow.

He kept his focus on her and she didn't blink when he asked, "What would you do then?"

She wanted him to keep going, but she couldn't say that, not with her family's servants standing within earshot, so instead she gave him a sly smile and said, "I'd… probably slap you."

"As long as you don't bite me." He smirked before he turned lazily, strolling down the street to the palace, the heat carried away on the breeze.


	3. 9:24 Dragon, Late Summer

**9:24 Dragon, Late Summer**

_Miss Samantha,_

_I hope my letter finds you in the throes of celebration on the occasion of your sixteenth name day. It is with considerable regret that I am missing out on the festivities, as I recall discussing all of the wonderful things that we planned to do on this day and the day after and the day after… These are memories I hold close to my heart and it is my wish on your special day that you are afforded the opportunity to do all those things we talked about and more. I am sure my cousin will see that you are appropriately celebrated and entertained._

_I apologize for not writing to you sooner, but I felt an apology in writing was rather gauche. Yet I have no other avenue so I must use this crude method, and hope that the feeling behind the words is enough._

_I am truly sorry for my behavior on the night before I left. It a shameful thing to ignore the wishes and desires of a girl when she has given herself over to the passions of a man. It was wrong to hold you in my arms and act out of selfishness. I hope you find it in your heart to forgive me someday, and I would very much like to continue our friendship; though, if Corbinian has anything to do with it, I'll likely call you cousin, soon._

_I was distressed to hear about Innley. I'll light a candle for him during service._

_Yours in spirit,_

_Sebastian Vael_

"How is the Chantry treating him?" Flora asked, seemingly uninterested. "He always could pen a beautiful letter, even about the dullest of subjects."

Samantha tossed a grin over her shoulder while she messed with her hair. She lied terribly but Flora didn't seem to notice: "He didn't talk much of the Chantry. He was Just... wishing me a happy name day."

She had been trying to tie a ribbon into her long brain for the past ten minutes, but couldn’t get the knot quite right, and was rather regretting having sent her maid away, some little elf girl who was all thumbs. Finally, Flora got tired of watching her.

"Here, let me do it." Her fingers deftly maneuvered the ribbon in and around her braid until weaving it perfectly.

She hadn't told Flora about Sebastian's behavior that night. Her suspicions that Sebastian's guilt and embarrassment over that evening had prevented him from even broaching an apology with her were confirmed with his letter. He had behaved so miserably; he had been correct in his letter and the apology was long overdue, but Samantha didn't want so spread gossip about her friend. She knew he wasn't himself that night. She didn't want others to judge him for it.

Inspecting her braid in the mirror, Samantha was in awe. "How did you do that?"

Flora wiggled her fingers. "Sebastian isn't the only one with nimble fingers."

"What does that mean?"

Flora leaned down to her shoulder, staring at Samantha's reflection in the mirror. "Every girl has her secrets. Now, tell me about Corbinian. What were those _naughty things_ that he told you?"

Samantha giggled. While she hadn't mentioned Sebastian's behavior, she had told Flora all about Corbinian's as he walked her home after service. It didn't help that their little scene at the fountain of Andraste had all the nobles gossiping. Flora had only asked what everyone else probably wanted to know.

"Andraste's holy word!" Flora swore, and Samantha delighted in having a secret from her friend; a reversal from the normal way of things.  "If you don't tell me what he said—!"

Samantha turned around in her chair, a maniacal grin on her face. "He described, in vivid detail I might add, how he wanted to touch me... with his lips."

Flora lifted her eyebrows high upon her forehead.

Samantha had wondered about Corbinian's intentions. He’d intimated that he knew Sebastian had kissed her and how she had bitten him, and perhaps he was even teasing her because of the hell she had been through with the nobles of Granite Circle over the past year. Maybe he would lord it over her in some way and she would have to do unspeakable things to keep the secret – never mind that the thought of those things excited her.

"What are you going to do?" Flora seemed thrilled by this story.

"I'm going to listen." Samantha whirled back around to the mirror and fiddled with her braid.

"Listen?"

"Let him say all that he likes. But if he wishes for more, then he will have make good on all that... talk." With a nefarious grin, Samantha reached for a hand mirror to check the back of her hair. "Now, about that other thing—"

"Yes, yes," Flora huffed. "It's all arranged. I swear, without me how would you ever get into trouble?"

"I likely wouldn't. I'd be a good girl." Samantha acted the innocent. "I'd probably even close my eyes while praying at church."

"And look forward to tea with the Garrity's."

Samantha set down her mirror and turned back around. "And never speak out of turn at social luncheons."

Flora sat up on the bed, giggling. "And always agree with your father!"

"And ask the maids to tighten my corset just a _teensy_ bit more!"

"You don't need the maids for that," Flora said with a sigh. "For that's what marriage is."

"Another corset?"

"Essentially," Flora shrugged. "The way my mother talks about it. _Men don't desire a lady's thoughts_."

"It's so odd; she seems to despise the ladies of Starkhaven, yet she's encouraging you to follow the same path," Samantha said thoughtfully.

"It's dreadful." Flora agreed. "But sometimes, I think she's more concerned about her well-being than mine."

"Whatever do you mean?"

"I just..." she hesitated but the secretive Flora returned with a laugh. "Oh, who knows with that woman? In any case, I don't think I shall ever marry! Once I have my inheritance, I will travel the world instead Like Arianna and her father!"

Samantha and Flora often joked of such endeavors. "I can see your mother now: showing off your postcards to all of her uppity friends!"

Flora glanced out the window, noting the setting sun. "Speaking of my mother, I better dash. She will hex me if I don't eat before your party. _A lady must never eat too much in public_!" She hopped off the bed.

"Enjoy your pre-eating!" Samantha called as Flora headed out. "And don't forget—!"

"I won't!" Flora called back from down the hallway.

Samantha turned back to her mirror. It was customary in Starkhaven to wear white when attending the sixteenth name day celebration of a noble's daughter, and Samantha had ordered her dress two months ago from Orlais. It wasn't silk, rather lace, delicately hand stitched and beaded from the hem up, letting her collarbone show. She decorated her neck with a silver necklace, her profile in ivory plated on a rose stone. It was fashionable trend amongst the daughters of Starkhaven.

She primped herself for a few moments longer, setting a white rose in her hair before—satisfied at last—she left the chamber and met her mother in the corridor. Lady Mayweather was positively glowing, and Samantha was forced to suffer through her sickening smile, along with the preening and those familiar phrases that Flora had parroted earlier: _you're a lady now_ , _don't show your teeth when you smile_ , _be sure to dance with only a few of the boys_ , _remember: tiny bites of food will keep your waist tiny, too_! Samantha was so thoroughly bored of all the miniature lectures that she had been forced to endure for years that she thought, surely someday during one of them, she would die from the monotony.

When the guests had finally all arrived, Samantha's mother led her to the terrace that overlooked the gardens and, as instructed and practiced a thousand times over, Samantha exited the house. She smiled demurely, fluttered her eyelashes, and curtsied low _like a soufflé falling,_ the memory of her mother's voice itching her ear. As the guests turned to gaze at her, their expressions were as expected: a little admiration, a bit of jealousy, and then boredom, as the novelty of her arrival gave way to their eagerness to down spirits and food.

The elaborate nature of these parties were more for her parents than for her, and so Samantha did what she could to ignore her mother's advice– she drank so much wine and ate so many oysters that it was equally likely she would vomit or laugh giddily throughout the night; either might have struck her at any point. Thankfully for her sake and that of the rest of the party she composed herself long enough to personally thank most everyone for coming. Before long, the band was playing loudly and the drunken revelers were dancing the night away. Jackets were left on chairs and shawls were thrown across tables as the heat of the evening rose with the dancing, and she did more than her share, her mother be damned.

At last, she was able to find a dark corner to drag Flora into. "Did you bring it?"

"Yes," she answered excitedly, her hair a little damp from dancing. She handed over a small vial with maybe a thimbleful of thick blue liquid, swirling with a magical shimmer. Samantha's eyes widened.

"I can't believe you got it."

"Well, you only turn sixteen once!" Flora lifted another vial from a hidden breast pocket and winked.

"What's this supposed to feel like anyway?" Samantha peered into the tiny vial, mesmerized by the metallic swirling.

Flora looked into her vial as well. "The alchemist says it's not nearly as potent as the stuff the Templar's drink. Just a little kick."

With a cursory glance to her parents, Samantha popped the cork, and she and Flora emptied the contents into their mouths. The liquid fizzled, coating their tongues with a distinctly bitter taste. They hastened onto the terrace, and grabbed the first passing servant with a tray of wine, and they both laughed ridiculously as Samantha tossed a glass back without a lady's pause.

Flora laughed, covering her mouth with her hand. "Slow down, will you? Your parents could be watching!"

"Oh, the Maker can have them," Samantha held her glass to the servant who silently accepted it and handed her another. "I doubt they'll even notice. My mother is nearly weeping, she's so smashed."

"No wonder your father hasn't left her side." Flora eyed them from across the room. "She doesn't drink much, does she?"

"Only on rare occasions." Samantha scanned the terrace.

Lady Mayweather was swaying from side to side and her lids were blinking almost independently of one another.

"Don't look now, but I think a certain boy who likes to talk is considering doing some more." Flora pointed to a corner of the garden next to a row of high hedges. The boys at these parties usually gathered together and roughhoused while the girls sat around and giggled. She gave a sigh. "Sebastian and Innley would be over there right now if they hadn't been sent away."

"I know," Samantha felt a tinge of sadness for the brother that was missing, now locked away in the Circle. She would have given anything to see him at his moment. And Sebastian...

Samantha had a passing thought of the young Vael, sitting in his brother's robes, perhaps sulking, refusing to come out. Perhaps he never thought of his old friends at all. Perhaps he did and was denying himself the torture of seeing people live their lives freely and without bonds since he had been forced into chastity. Perhaps he was drunk and climbing out of a window somewhere. The thought made her smile.

"Perhaps I will see Sebastian next time I am in Kirkwall." Flora stated the words as though they were an admission of something.

Flora's family visited Kirkwall about three or four times a year as they had a second estate there. During her spring trip, she had waited for Sebastian to visit, but he never did. She didn't see him at service, and later suspected that he never knew she was in town.

"Why haven't you written to him, anyway?" Samantha waved to someone who’d waved at her – she couldn't tell who they were or even if she knew them.

"I've been busy," Flora smoothed her hair away from her face. "Who are we dancing with now?"

"Whoever asks!"

It would have been rude not to dance with her party guests, but the one that had curiously not asked her to dance was Corbinian. She saw him look over at her pointedly as if the boys around him had been speaking of her, and he looked away.

"What a tease," Flora sneered. "You want my advice, Sammie? Ignore him. Make him think you're completely uninterested and show interest in everyone else."

"A jackal's game." Samantha finished her glass of wine. The tiny vial's contents were making her feel fantastic. "They should be fighting over us, Flora. Not the other way around!"

"If you say so." She sighed, and Samantha wondered who she was thinking about. It had to be someone...but she knew that Flora would never tell her without an interrogation, and Samantha didn't feel like pulling the information from her friend. At least, not on this night. This was her party!

"Here he comes. Good luck." Flora giggled while she walked away and Samantha looked across the terrace.

It seemed Corbinian’s inhibitions had taken the path of his jacket, which he had thrown casually across the banister. He strode through the dance floor like it was his own and these were all his guests. The moment he took her hand into his was marvelous thanks to the tiny vial that Flora had obtained. She felt a strange of surge of energy, like she could do anything with his hands on her, but instead of flying to the Maker's kingdom, he led her out onto the stone slabs of the patio. Many had gathered here, swaying together with their bodies close as if they were alone. He hadn't even asked her to dance, the brute, though when he stepped nearer she no longer cared. Samantha would never know if the prickles along the back of her neck were from Corbinian's closeness or the cool evening breeze that filtered through her hair. Corbinian lifted her left hand into the air, and she had to adjust to dancing backwards – of course; he was left-handed. The switch left Samantha feeling somewhat awkward.

"Finally made time for the honoree, have you?" she teased, and she could feel the ribbon in her braid loosening from the heat.

"I figured I owed you that much." He was a little breathless, having spent most of the night drinking and running around outside – such a boy.

"Your dancing is atrocious."

"You should see Goran."

He looked over her shoulder and she turned to the sight of Goran Vael, Corbinian's younger brother, fumbling artlessly around the dance floor with Flora, who gave her a pleading look. Samantha turned her face away, trying to hide her desire to laugh very loudly.

"I see your point." She sneaked a look over her shoulder again. "Who invited that poor sod?"

"Oh, we're related, haven't you heard?"

"I wouldn't admit to that too loudly, Beenie. You might get kicked out just so he'll have to leave with you."

"Well if I get kicked out, I'm taking my gift with me."

"Too late!" She shook his shoulders a little, as much as she could anyway, he felt immovable. "I've already seen it. Great big box. White paper. Gold ribbon."

"A lady's riding saddle," he announced with flat affect. "My mother picked it out. I'm sure you'll adore it if you ever decide to take up riding horses."

"How dare you come to my party without a gift," she said, feigning offense.

He gave her a funny look, a pause, a consideration, and then he said, "It's hot up here."

He never let go of her hand as he guided her through the other dancers, all of whom paid absolutely no attention to them – what was this all about? He was royalty and this was _her_ party! Shouldn't they be—wait, where was Beenie taking her? He led her from the floor, past the string quartet that kept everyone in each other's arms, down the wide stone steps and into the gardens. She hopped a bit to remove her shoes: the cool grass felt oh so pleasant upon her bare feet.

"Where are we going?" She asked, but she wasn't protesting that they were leaving the party.

 Corbinian turned around, walking backwards. "I'm leading us to our doom."

"Of that, I have no doubt." Samantha dropped her shoes, forgetting them immediately because Corbinian smiled at her again, and it was then that she decided that wherever _her doom_ was, it was likely a lovely place.

Eventually they stopped and she looked behind her to see the tiny twinkling lights of her party, still raging well into the night.

"They say the Maker can see you better out from under the light." Corbinian dropped her hand, lifting his face to the stars.

"You wish an audience with the Maker?"

"They say he is always in audience. Even now." He lost his footing a little, likely lightheaded from his wine and looking up.

Samantha looked up too, but Corbinian caught her before she fell over. The wine had gone straight to her head and the vial had brought her body to life, and she truly loved this feeling. Their everyday lives were lived with restraint; mustn't smile too big, laugh too loud, ask too many questions or talk too much and definitely no cracking jokes or poking fun. Impropriety was defined in many different ways, and in their caste it seemed like everything that was any fun at all would fall under its banner.

"Watch those ankles." He smiled down at her again.

His eyes were still so blue even under the star's dim light, most especially when he brushed her hair away from her face. Maybe it was that simple gesture, or her conversation with Flora earlier that day, or any other time where he had winked or smirked or had given the impression that everything in the world existed only to entertain him. In any case, the tiny vial had infused her limbs with playful energy, and she was determined to catch him in his tricks.

"I'm onto you." She poked a finger into his shirt. "I know what you're doing."

"I doubt that," he mused, setting her back on her feet so she wouldn't fall over.

"You're trying to seduce me." She wasn't so much drunk as the vial had shed her of her inhibition.

"Succeeding is more like it."

"You take me away from my own party." She tapped his chest with her finger. "After barely dancing with me, I might add, and I'm supposed to swoon?"

"Swooning is optional, actually."

"You never wrote to me while you were away."

"I wasn't allowed sharp objects inside the house."

"You didn't eat with me this evening, either. I had to eat with Gwendolyn Fortney." She waved her hand in the direction of the party. "Or rather, I ate while she watched."

"Truly, she is a gorgeous young skeleton." He chuckled at Samantha's condition.

"More your type."

"Yes, but mostly because she spreads her legs for all the neighbors."

She couldn't help the loud laugh that escaped her for Miss Gwendolyn Fortney was a sickly young girl who fainted whenever there was a knock on the door. The thought of her whoring around Granite Circle was preposterous! In that moment, she had forgotten that they were alone, and instinctively slapped a hand to her mouth as if it were too loud for propriety; she inwardly cursed her mother's fastidious tutoring. Corbinian chuckled too, but his gaze seemed to get caught on her necklace He seemed lost in thought before moving his eyes back to hers.

"So, I've made a decision." He was so mischievous.

"How very grown-up of you."

"I've decided that I'm going to kiss you tonight."

She couldn't help laughing again. "On my neck?"

"No." His half-grin returned. "Right on your lips. With your permission, of course."

"And why should I give it?" she teased.

"Because it's the natural way of things, Sammie. First the lips, then the neck."

"Clearly, I need to bone up on the rules."

"I'll educate you." He smiled, and she opened her mouth to respond but found nothing coming out, for the tiny vial was encouraging her to accept his offer. "But I'm not going to right now." He slipped his hands into his pockets.

She stood flat on her feet, and the hem of dress settled into the cool grass. "You're so considerate, Beenie."

"I just want you to open your gift first."

"Your mother will be so proud of you."

"Not that one." He lifted a hand from his pocket – always his damnable pockets – and in his palm sat a small box.

Samantha raised a brow. "Spending all your allowance in one shot again?"

"Something like that."

But she made no move to take it and he just stood there, holding it out in his open palm. This was a game of chicken, and Samantha wondered about the stakes.

"Go on, then," he prompted.

This was unusual. Gifts were almost always opened the day after, never in front of the giver unless it was a special gift, a gift with meaning and purpose. Little velvet boxes that emerged from dashing young cousins of the prince of Starkhaven definitely fell into that category. Suddenly nervous, her resolve flickered - but, no, she couldn't let some boy dupe her into giving away her virtue so easily. She opened her mouth to speak but he cut her off by taking a step towards her.

"Before you say something cute," he said quietly. "Just open it."

She carefully took the box from his palm, and with its passing, his hand retreated back to his pocket. The box was warm. Warmth transferred from his body to the box and now to hers. To Samantha, it was quite the erotic thought, and she wondered about its path from place to place to end up in her hand. She was thankful for the wine and the little vial's liquid courage as she let her eyes drop down and, making sure her expression was nonchalant, she casually opened it up.

In the moments that followed, she was grateful that she was standing flatfooted in a garden with the soft grass, because for an instant she thought she might faint. Her corset felt too tight and she couldn't draw a breath, for what lay inside the box was not what she expected.

It was a golden locket. The design on the top was the Vael family crest. The hook for the chain was empty, because there was no chain. This locket was a family heirloom and for some reason, Corbinian had just given it to her. Such things were rarely given to anyone of only passing importance. No, things of this nature were given as promises and she could feel her heart thumping so loudly that she thought maybe he could hear it, too. The muscles in her body wouldn't respond to the normal commands; the best she could do was to move her eyes and when they reached his, he smiled at her – that Vael smile.

They had been playing games all their lives, from the moment they met and he stole her painting oils and dumped them over her head, and she had cried and cried and then later when his mother marched him over to her, his chin tucked firmly against his chest, and made him apologize. And he had, but he’d lifted his head and stuck his tongue out to suggest he wasn't sorry at all. He had that same sort of look now, the one that implied how very not sorry he was.

It was at this moment that she considered he wasn't playing games. The idea felt unfamiliar.

He tilted his head. "You look confused."

"This is your grandmother's locket," she said dumbly.

"You remembered."

"Does your mother know you're gifting it to me?"

"Of course she does—woah—" Corbinian caught her, his hands firmly on her arms, because that answer caused her to wobble, suddenly a little lightheaded. She tried to take a breath, but felt only her stiff stay pressing against her ribs. "If I had known it would provoke such a reaction I would have given this to you in front of your parents."

"That would be just like you…" she said weakly.

She had wobbled up against his chest, bringing a hand up to keep steady, and the box was still open, the golden locket shining bright like its own star. In the silence of the next moment, with her hands on his warm chest through his half-unbuttoned shirt, she could feel the thumping of his own heart, strong and steady, predictable even as he was not.

"Why are you giving this to me?"

 He smirked, bringing his hand to her chin. "I think now I'll kiss you."

She made some small noise, she was sure of it, because his lips were against hers a moment later, soft and warm with wind and crickets and the sounds of two people breathing in and out. He radiated heat through his tunic and her white Orlesian lace, warming her up; there was strength in that, like she could live off of that fire, be rejuvenated by it. In between the breeze in her ears, the orchestra still played, strings with differing pitches that changed from some boring tune to a melody of memory.

She had never been kissed like this. Sebastian's kiss was drunken and sloppy, aggressively only pleasing himself. She had kissed other boys before, but she was young and rich and unsupervised and often ended up in dark rooms with a bunch of other young, rich, unsupervised people and unseemly things always occurred. But those were just play kisses, and never like this one. This was a kiss reserved for a sixteenth name day celebration, crafted for her and her alone.

When he pulled away, still holding her close, for a moment she thought that he might be at a loss for words, because his mouth was still open but nothing was being said. And Corbinian _always_ had something to say.

The seconds passed like ages and when the orchestra changed songs, the silence punctuating the end of the moment. She smiled. "I could still slap you if you like."

He laughed wildly then, pulling her tight against him. "My Sammie, how you have ruined me."

He kissed her again, but it was a softer kiss, a kiss meant as an end to the kissing which was sort of disappointing because she strongly felt like she wasn't nearly as lightheaded from the kissing as she was from the wine. Anyway, the greatest romance stories always had the man kissing the woman until she was utterly spent.

He grinned. "I'm going to send you and your family and invitation to the palace tomorrow."

"First the locket and now this?" She glanced back at the party that she no longer wanted to rejoin. She wanted nothing more than to stay just like they were. "Beenie, you're going to make me think you're serious."

He offered a roguish grin as he pulled the white rose from her hair, slipping it into the lapel of his coat. "Oh, I'm very serious."

But, always sardonic with that silly shine in his eyes, she had to wonder if he was truly capable of being this serious. He would likely be bored of her by the beginning of winter, just like he was with all the others. Samantha wondered about that as he held her hand while they walked back to the house. She wondered about that as he danced with her again, one final time, before his mother found him and informed him that they were leaving. And she wondered about it again as he kissed her hand and winked at her before strolling out of the house, his jacket over his shoulder, his hand in his pocket. The cheeky bastard.

 


	4. 9:24 Dragon, Autumn

**9:24 Dragon, Autumn**

The invitation came as promised, but not the next day. In Corbinian-time, _tomorrow_ meant _next week_. Truthfully, she hadn't expected him to fawn over her; it just wasn't like him. In fact, if he had started fawning over her, she would have suspected something truly was off, like he was possessed or maybe hypnotized.

After dinner, as usual, she was gathered with her parents in the study, a book firmly planted in her hands, her mother sitting at her writing desk and her father wandering the length of the room, removing a book, reading a page, turning the page, putting the book back, _ad infinitum_. Tonight's book was _The History of the Chantry, Chapter 1_.

_In those days, even after the devastation of the first Blight, the Imperium stretched across the known world. Fringed with barbarian tribes, the Imperium was well prepared for invasions and attacks from without. Fitting, then, that the story of its downfall begins from within._

_As all downfalls do_ , her father had warned her. As if he was implying something, perhaps about herself or Innley, but more than likely he was implying empires and nations.

There were many lessons to be learned from the Blights, four in all. Namely, that family and friends and community are probably the most important thing any human can have. All the stories were fraught with despair and the wreckage leftover after the death of communal spirit, and only salvaged when the people come together to defeat something grand, like tyranny or the Archdemon. To Samantha, all the Blights were simply metaphor for the nature of struggle. And the Grey Wardens were metaphor for the champion within all of us. Her father had always been pleased with those answers, and truthfully, she always loved the stories. But the one thing she never mentioned to her father was that almost universally, the stories involved love. The quintessential human emotion that drove the furthering of existence, whether it was to make babies or to save each other, it was always about love and Samantha liked that, though she would never admit to it out loud. Not even to her mother, who would celebrate such ideals. Something about pleasing her mother was unappealing to Samantha.

"Oh, look," her mother said right then. "An invitation from the Vaels. They have invited us to brunch with them after church service, three weeks from now."

Her father murmured something unintelligible.

"Well this is quite unexpected. Why do you suppose they have invited us?"

Samantha sneaked a glance at her mother – had the invitation not stated it?

"May I see that, mother?" she asked and her mother nodded, bringing out the _good_ stationary as she called it only because it was trimmed in gold and not white, and began to write back accepting the invitation.

It was a plain invitation, as if written by a secretary.

_His Highness, Lord Vael, brother to the prince of Starkhaven, his Most Worthy Highness, cordially and politely invites you and your family, your wife and daughter, to attend brunch on the day of the autumn equinox after Chantry service. Please RSVP at your earliest convenience._

_With kind regards,_

_The Duke and Duchess of Starkhaven and their sons, Marquess Corbinian and Lord Goran_

What was this? There was no mention of her at all! She tossed the invitation back down to her mother's desk and resettled herself on the divan, her book lifted up to her face to hide her irritation. The words across the page appeared, unwelcomed.

_The Imperium began to tear itself apart from within, throngs of angry and disillusioned citizens doing what centuries of opposing armies could not. But the magisters were confident in their power, and they could not imagine surviving a Blight only to be destroyed by their own subjects._

Subjects. All people of power had subjects who allowed them to rule, sometimes rather insistently. That was how it had always been in Starkhaven, for the Vaels were Royalty partly because the people of Starkhaven desired royalty. Like the grand displays of pomp in Orlais, Haveners, as they called themselves, loved their finery, and royals were every bit as decorative as a timeless portrait. Samantha's mind wandered to the lavish finery of the palace, and briefly wondered what would she wear to such an informal gathering as brunch? She had only been there countless times, it wasn't like he had framed the invitation to suggest anything special, but then again she hadn't told her parents about the locket. Tucked away safely in a drawer in her vanity, she had a thought that maybe she was expected to wear it, though she had yet to find a suitable chain. But, no, it would be uncouth to wear the Vael family symbol to a gathering where such relationships have not been made public. Then again, Corbinian did say that his mother knew. Did that mean Corbinian was going to announce his intention at brunch? Would her father agree to it?

Her father had been so angry that night she had come home with that badly twisted ankle, wine on her breath, and a ripped open dress, and she knew that he blamed her condition on the influence of her friends. He couldn't forbid her from ever seeing a member of the royal family, but he could deny an engagement, should one be proposed. Wait—what? A proposal? Why was she thinking of such ridiculous things? This was Corbinian; the drunken scoundrel who had asked her what color her underwear was in church! With his cheeky grin and the truly naughty way he kissed—

"Samantha!" Her father's voice made her jump. "I've been calling your name three times now."

"I'm so sorry, father." She stood up. "I must have been absorbed in my book…"

He stood as well, appraising her. "Tell me about what you read." 

She set the book down. "The book begins after the first Blight has ended, and the world has been devastated by the magisters’ actions that forever tainted the Maker's golden city. The book goes into detail about how the citizens of Tevinter, disillusioned by the silence that spread over the world, splintered into factions, eventually rising up in rebellion against the leaders of Tevinter who came down upon them without mercy."

"Stand up straight, dear," her mother remarked casually and Samantha straightened her spine.

"Very good," her father huffed. "Why did the people rise up?"

"They had been under oppressive rule and their gods, the Old Gods, didn't answer their prayers for freedom. The people wondered if their Gods had abandoned them, but some blamed the magisters for the Old Gods disappearance."

"Then why did they burn the temples? Wasn't that a place of solace for their suffering?"

Samantha thought about that. "An act of desperation. Maybe they thought that by burning those places that were the most sacred, they would get their Gods attention, no matter if the response was angry or not, at least it would have been a response."

He grunted again, nodding at her. "With more thought I think you'll have it. You'll read Chapter Two tomorrow, and perhaps you'll understand more then."

"Yes, Father."

"Off to bed with you."

"Yes, Father." She placed the book on the side table and made her way out of the room.

Her parents were utterly silent as she left, but once in the hallway she knew they would talk; she didn't particularly care about what. As she ascended the stairs alone, she couldn't help but feel her brother's absence. How many years had they performed this final daily walk together? At the top of the stairs, a portrait of flowers came into view. It was bright and vibrant but Samantha felt hollow looking at it. It's giant square frame fit perfectly into the space where her brother's portrait was once displayed. Before she could blink, a tiny elf appeared in front of her. It was a maid. She dressed in drab colors, always looked at the floor, and rarely spoke; sometimes Samantha wondered if she even spoke the common tongue. Like all elves, she was exceedingly graceful, and thus an excellent choice to help her out of her clothing; expertly unwrapping her from her dress, vest, corset, stockings, and finally her elaborate hair. Such is the way of things in Starkhaven.

When she finally settled down in bed, the advent of darkness brought new thoughts as she pushed away all those things for which she could do nothing. These were thoughts that she reserved for only when she was alone, and they were of Corbinian.

When the day to visit the palace finally arrived—and it seemed like too much time had elapsed between that day and her name day—Samantha sat dutifully in her pew during church. The congregation was fanning themselves with elegant fans bought from Orlais or Antiva or some other place that probably seemed foreign and exotic, and all the women were wearing looser dresses with lighter stays. It was unusually hot for so late in the year.

The Grand Cleric's voice was an afterthought, floating through the air like ambient noise, because Corbinian kept looking over at her. He was seated next to his mother, which meant that Samantha couldn't look back at him for too long for fear that Lady Vael would turn her head and think she was staring at her and that would awkward later when they were sharing a table.

Her Grace, Francesca, was saying that man's nature was to rebuild, which was the nature of all things. Most importantly, however, was to recognize what the mistakes were and to learn from them so that the rebuilding process had a greater purpose. She explained that was how and why the Chantry was needed, because man learned their mistakes about magic and knew the necessity of keeping mages from harming themselves. It was for their protection, she said!

_Protection_. Samantha silently sighed, thinking of her father and her mother and the strange ways that they thought they were protecting their family from Innley, whom she still had not seen or heard from and her parents never spoke of and forbade all the servants from mentioning either. They even had his room stripped and redone. It was like he was dead – no, worse, it was like he had never existed.

The duke and duchess along with the prince and princess of Starkhaven plus the two sons they hadn’t given away had left the church already with Goran who, Samantha had noted, had been staring at Flora for most of the service. Samantha had also noted that her friend had looked entirely displeased with the attention. Corbinian met her outside the chantry, waiting for her under the Maker's blistering sun ready to walk her down the granite path leading to the Royal Palace. And— _Andraste's breath!_ —he looked just amazing in the sun, his golden skin glowed and his auburn hair caught the sun's rays and seemed to reflect them back. Samantha noted how tanned both of them had become at the end of the summer.

Haveners were naturally somewhat dark, though influences from Orlais had lightened their skin over the centuries. Bordering Nevarra and Antiva, two nations known for their wonderfully bronzed skin had kept Starkhaven nicely brown, unlike Ferelden, which was pasty white and quite dirty – at least, everyone said so.

But while Corbinian looked divine in the sun, he seemed entire uncomfortable in his clothes.

"What is this you’re wearing?" She felt the sleeves while he scratched at his neck; the nice green high-collared tunic seemed like it itched.

"I don't even know," he groaned. "Likely something from Antiva. Nothing but coarse cotton in that place."

"Next time I visit, I'll let the Queen know."

He smiled, holding out his arm for her to take. "That would save me the trouble of visiting. Then I could go someplace nice. Like Seheron."

She opened her parasol and took his arm. "You will fit right in. I hear the Qunari wear mostly nothing."

"In that case, you should come with me."

He spoke casually, but there was something to that invitation that made Samantha smile. Ideas of traveling with him on long journeys under the sun and the clouds alike, maybe on a boat or carriage. Maybe they would travel all over the world and see everyplace that ever was and meet every type of person and laugh and run and dance and play. Just like they did here, for to the rich, Starkhaven was just a playground on marble and granite with booze instead of swing-sets and sex instead of tag, even if sex was sometimes like playing tag. The way all of her friends went on and on about it, who was having sex with whom, and who wanted to have sex with whom, and on and on until it was almost too boring to even talk about.

"My parents are planning a trip to Nevarra this spring to visit my Aunt." He swatted at a fly. The heat of the day was rising. "Likely, they'll take me and Goran with them."

"Flora will be devastated."

"You caught that, too? And here I thought he was too subtle."

"The way Flora fawns over him, you can probably tell him that he doesn't need subtlety," Samantha jested, spying Goran ahead, his hair was already a little damp with sweat. "Or brunch."

He chuckled again, because even from a distance, Flora's disinterest in Goran was plain to see. Truly, Samantha couldn't believe they were brothers. It was like all the perfect beautiful Vael family traits got caught in Corbinian and everything that was left over spilled into the other brother. Goran wasn't plump, he was just a little pudgy, plus he was sort of dim... often just agreeing with everyone around him. He could scarcely follow Corbinian and Samantha's constant ribbing, but he always seemed far more interested in dessert than conversation anyway. She squinted under the sun, wondering if he had ever read a book.

She stopped thinking about Goran when Corbinian's hand covered hers on his arm and it was then that she became keenly aware of everyone else's awareness of them. The Luxleys, the Harimanns, the Fortneys, the Tylers, the Garritys, the widowed Lady Preston, the Marzianos, and even the Kendalls were exchanging looks and whispers and trying to cover up the fact that they were watching rather intently, from the pair to their parents and back again. The only families that didn't seem to be staring were hers and his. She looked behind her and caught Flora with a very un-subtle grin on her face, giving her a pointed look as if she were accusing Samantha of something.

"It seems like subtlety is something truly lacking in this town." Samantha shook her head, returning her gaze forward.

"Perhaps we should just give them what they want." He stopped in the middle of the path, the giant palace gates looming ahead of them. "Right here."

"And let the suspense die? You know it's what they live for—" But she stopped talking rather abruptly, because he stepped into her, tilting his chin down to speak into her ear, and the looks from the nobles that were passing by on the path were utterly priceless.

"And it's these moments that I live for." His whisper prickled her skin, a little ticklish, but he kept going. "Because after we smile and nod and behave in a mostly charming manner during brunch, I'm going to sneak you away to the stables."

"And if I refuse?"

"I'll make it worth your while."

"Name the terms, then." She couldn't help her smile, because not only was his voice truly naughty, but his body was so close to hers that she could see the stray threads poking out every which way from his tunic, tickling the side of his neck, where a single droplet of sweat was traveling from behind his ear, all the way down... ever so slowly.

"Next week, I will come to your estate for a visit."

"A generous offer, but hardly a worthy payment."

"I didn't say I'd visit your family – just your estate. And I plan on entering through your bedroom window."

She smiled so widely that she felt it in her eyes. She probably blushed too; she was nearly certain, anyway, because one of the nearby ladies—whom she could see over Beenie’s shoulder, craning to get a better earful of their conversation—let out a small but very audible gasp. Corbinian stepped away, turning about to find the culprit.

"Lady Luxley, are you all right?" he called with a sly grin. "It's rather hot, perhaps you should find some shade."

"Oh—yes, yes, Your Excellency." Lady Luxley giggled like a schoolgirl and curtsied, turning around with her large parasol's tassels swinging behind her.

Corbinian turned back to Samantha, a devilish look in his eyes. She shook her head, but when she said _"Agreed"_ she wished that she had an artist to capture his smile.

They entered the estate and it was a marvelous respite from the searing heat of the day. A servant greeted them at the door, holding out a ridiculously large sterling silver tray with glistening glasses of ice-cold white wine, one for each of them. Corbinian knocked his back like it was water, tossing it over to the servant with a wide smile. Samantha sipped hers like a lady while her mother watched, but when both of her parents and Corbinian's parents turned away, she tilted her head back and finished it off. Corbinian took her glass from her hand and tossed it behind him to the servant as they walked past and the man had to scramble to prevent it from shattering on the marble floor.

He tugged at his tunic again. "I'm going to change. I'll meet you on the terrace."

She watched him ascend the first ten steps in four bounds before she started down the hall. The Royal Palace was encased in stone, marble, granite, and clay. These cool stones didn't absorb the heat from the outside, which lent a rather cool air to the interior, but everything else on the inside lent an air of riches. Samantha walked across the thick forest-green rug that stretched the length of the entrance hallway, an intricate design in gold dancing along its edges as she traveled. Thick curtains, velvet and silk, hid the towering windows from view, blocking out sunshine and heat.

The walls were absolutely covered in portraits: Vaels of the distant past, great-great-great-great grandparents and their children and their children's children, with aunts and uncles and second and third cousins so many times removed that Corbinian had never bothered to keep track, because it was just impossible.

Finally, as she neared the end of the hallway, her parents and their highnesses, the duke and duchess Vael, turned the corner passing the portraits of those members of the Vael family that were still alive. Corbinian's mother's portrait was painted on black velvet, the swathes of paint brushed casually, yet beautifully capturing his mother's stunning eyes and her dark hair. His father's portrait was traditional oil on canvas with the Vael family crest in the background, his shoulders square and his visage regal. Finally Marquess Corbinian and Lord Goran in all their Vael regalia and it seemed to Samantha that the artist that had painted Goran had been generous.

On the opposite wall were the prince and princess of Starkhaven and their three sons. Samantha paused to look at Sebastian's portrait: something was a little off, but his calm eyes and gentle smile were just the same. Had it been too long – no, not nearly, only just a few months. She needed to write him back, but she often found herself so caught up in the drama of the moment with the families of her friends that she forgot the obligations her parents didn't enforce.

She heard Corbinian striding down the hallway and stepped back from the painting. He had changed his shirt to off-white linen. Truly, it was a color and texture that suited him. He stopped next to her, looking over at Sebastian's likeness and squinted. "They got his nose all wrong. See?" He lifted his thumb to it, cutting off part of the bridge, and then Samantha recognized him.

"Ah! No wonder..."

"Come on." He led her onto the terrace just as the mimosas were being served, and when they sat down, Corbinian's parents were speaking to her parents of the trip to Nevarra.

"It will likely take a month," his mother was saying, her voice thick with regalia, as if she found it hard to talk like a normal person. "It would please us all."

"Well," her father replied. "Samantha has never been to Nevarra…"

Samantha shot Corbinian a look of shock and he settled back into his chair, popping a grape into his shit-eating grin.

"Think about it," Corbinian's father said. "We have plenty of time to make the arrangements."

"Thank you." Samantha's mother was always gracious. "A most generous offer."

"Think nothing of it." Corbinian's father gestured for the serving to commence. "We consider it our duty to see to the education of Starkhaven's daughters."

Samantha's gaze danced around the table, from her parents to his parents and back to him. He downed a mimosa and held it up in the air indicating that he wanted another, but he still stared at her, smiling like a devious maniac.

The servants floated into the room by the half-dozen, setting down trays of sweetmeats – smoked, roasted, blackened to perfection – and bright fruits – melons of every color, berries of every size, grapes both plump and small, pears already and cut, peaches gently lined with grill-marks, and pitted cherries glistening with a sprinkling of sugar. There were omelets made with perfectly-cut mushrooms, asparagus, zucchini and tomato. Goran eyed the tray of breads, butter, and cheeses from everywhere, but Samantha's mother widened her eyes at the seemingly endless supply of orange juice and champagne. It was so much more extravagant than the Mayweathers were used to, but that was nothing compared to the centerpiece of the meal. Sitting atop a large plank of cedar rested whole roasted fish, slices of lemon and salt were all that coated its exterior, but it was half-cut revealing a soft white flaky center.

Samantha felt suddenly very tiny, wondering how she was going to eat this meal and not bust out of her dress. She decided to imitate the Duchess, Corbinian's mother, for she was quite slender. It only took a moment to figure out why; she moved slower than molasses. Her fingers extended painfully to point at which items she wanted the servants to decorate her plate with, and she brought each bite to her mouth as if it would be her last, savoring each mouthful. Samantha opted for an omelet and some fruit; breads would fill her up too easy.

"They say that Seheron is lovely in the summer," Corbinian said, almost offhandedly.

His father coughed into his drink. "What? Why would you want to go there?"

"Darling," his mother's voice dripped from her mouth. "Corbinian is joking. Aren't you, dear?"

"No."

"See? He's such a playful boy."

Samantha's father eyed him suspiciously, but her mother was inspecting the silver, and her small smile indicated approval.

"Seheron?" Goran asked, his mouth full of eggs.

"It's an island." Samantha spoke up, figuring she should at least try to make a good impression, and Corbinian settled his amused gaze upon her. "You know, that island that the Qunari and Tevinter are always fighting over? You remember from our studies, I am sure."

Goran stared at her like he had never heard that story before. Samantha glanced at her parents; her father was stiffly lifting eggs to his mouth and her mother was delicately spreading butter across toast. The Duke and Duchess Vael had, by now, moved on from their elder son's joke and their younger son's idiocy, but Corbinian was still staring at her, his ankle resting on the opposite knee, his chin in his hand, that ridiculous grin smeared across his face, and he was very clearly waiting for her to finish.

"Oh, stop teasing me, Goran," Samantha added hastily, wishing she hadn't spoke up, but he looked utterly perplexed, which was probably normal for him. In any case, he resumed consuming his brunch with gusto.

"So, Lord Corbinian." Samantha's father sat up straight. "Your father says you are taking the Oath of Starkhaven when you are of age."

"Yes, sir." He nodded. "It is the duty of the Captain of the Royal Army to set an example."

The Oath of Starkhaven was an age-old tradition dating back to the Second Blight. When it became clear that the Archdemon was heading to the city, thousands of women and men had taken a solemn vow to fight for the preservation of the city and its citizens. After the Blight had ended, may more had pledged their lives to continue to protect the city until their dying breath. Almost two hundred years later, when the Third Blight erupted in Tevinter and Orlais eventually snaking its way down the Minanter, the Oath became popular once again, with the grandchildren and great-grandchildren of those who had taken the Oath before taking up the same vows along with the same swords.

It became a badge of honor to have someone in the family who had taken the Oath, yet equally disgraceful when the Oath was broken. Many felt the betrayal akin to treason, and thus the punishment of execution without exception was intended to keep those who weren't serious about the Oath from taking it to gain notoriety. It was mostly meaningless now since it had been so long since the last Blight – nearly four hundred years – but there were some who still took it seriously, such as the Mayweathers, the Garritys and the Prestons who all had a long history of Oath-takers in their own family histories.

Corbinian was not of age to take the Oath yet; he would need to wait until his nineteenth year where he would stand in front of his family and all the leaders of Starkhaven – the Grand Cleric of the Starkhaven Chantry, the First Enchanter of the Starkhaven Circle, the Knight Commander of Starkhaven's Templar Order and the prince himself – during an elaborate ceremony and swear that the preservation of the city and its citizens would be more important than anything, even his own life. Even the lives of his family and everyone he ever loved. As nephew to the Prince of Starkhaven, it wasn't expected, but Corbinian had decided to take the Oath anyway, owing it to his duty as Captain of the Royal Army. It was one of the few things that he took seriously.

"Good man." Samantha's father naturally approved. "Not enough take the Oath anymore."

"You're quite right, sir," Corbinian agreed; he didn't have to call her father sir, but he did anyway. "It's easy to forget that even the longest peace can be disrupted by a single slight."

"Indeed. Without good men and women behind our leaders, all it takes is for the strongest among us to fall for chaos to splinter the city."

"Not while I'm alive, sir."

Corbinian was putting on a show, and Samantha forked small amounts of eggs into her mouth between bites of melon. It almost looked like her father was warming up to him – almost. Her mother was thoroughly enjoying her omelet. Goran was scraping the small bits from his plate with the back of his fork, licking them off and then repeating the process. Corbinian's father and mother had been paying attention... or at least they wanted to give the impression that they were.

Samantha's mother turned to Corbinian's mother. "I just received the new fashion plates from Orlais. I must say, the inclusion of feather plumes to hats is not really suitable for our weather."

"Quite right," she replied. "They will droop sadly. I read that the best way to combat this is to rub them with a little bit of starch-water, stiffen them up a bit."

Samantha took a long drink from her mimosa and spied Corbinian who was just finishing his own eggs – it took him about five bites.

_"Indeed? Starch! Of course."—"And the perfumes of the season are floral."—"Is that right?"—"I believe the most popular is hydrangea."—"Lovely!"_

They could probably go on all day and Samantha finished her drink, lamenting that her mother could be so stereotypically vapid.

"Lord Mayweather, I wonder if I might take Samantha to see the gardens," Corbinian interrupted their mothers’ conversation.

"Oh, _darling_..." His mother's accent stretched out the word. "It's so hot."

"We won't stay out long."

The gardens stretched the length of the property; rows of roses in shades non-native to Starkhaven, the largest collection of chicory in the Free Marches, and pristine white calla lilies that had been shipped in from Antivan merchants who sent hundreds into the marshes to gather exotic plants; only dozens would return. It was a mark of wealth to have so many and the Duchess had ordered them masterfully arranged around a four-tiered white stone fountain that sat in the center of the gardens to show them off. The gardens also required constant watering in the summer, but their fragrance was so intoxicating that bards from all over Thedas would flock to Starkhaven just to see the gardens and become inspired. It was like walking through a colorful painting all the way to the tall hedges that buffered the estate from the stables, the smithy, and training yards.

"All right." Her father nodded slowly, still eyeing the young Vael with some trepidation. "But it's getting into the afternoon…"

"I'll see her home, then." Corbinian spoke quickly. "I'm sure after the gardens, Samantha would love to see the sculptures. Perhaps the paintings by Pierre Moreau."

"Oh, I just adore him," Samantha's mother said dreamily, finishing off her mimosa.

"Well…" Her father looked to the Vaels, who were looking back expectantly. This was a brilliant move on Corbinian's part. Her father couldn't really refuse with the royal family sitting there staring at him. "All right."

Corbinian stood up and gave a bow. "Excuse us, then."

Samantha accepted his hand before they casually exited the room and moved out into the searing heat of the day, bursting into laughter and then running off into the garden before her father could change his mind. They paused at the fountain, unbuttoning their collars and running their hands through the warm water which was still cooler than the humid air that pressed down on them.

"Maker, it's hot!" Samantha ran a wet hand over her neck, remembering their deal. "This trip through my window better be memorable."

"Have I ever gone back on a promise?"

Samantha offered a sly grin. "The day is yet young…"

"My Samantha, you wound me! I would sooner run off to the live in the Northern Marshes than break any promise I make to you."

"I'll hold you to that!"

"I'd expect no less." He ran a fountain-wetted hand over his eyes. "Maker! It's hot! Whose idea was it to come out here?"

"I believe it was some reckless, adventuring, youth with dishonorable intentions and no knowledge of weather reports." Samantha was damp under her layers of clothes, though her dress and stay were reasonably light. "Next time, we skip the stables and go straight to the window."

"Don't tease me." Corbinian brought his hand up to his brow to shade the sun. "I see salvation ahead."

She could see in the nearing distance the perfectly trimmed high hedges, which were at least twice as tall as Corbinian, and he led them passed the buzzing of honeybees and dragonflies who were intimately inhaling the fragrance of the gardens. She swatted several away who mistook her for part of the gardens as they rounded the corner hedge and pushed open the enormous wrought-iron gate that had grown hot to the touch from the afternoon sunrays.

Passing through the gate was like stepping into another world. There was a layer of dirt covering everything, leaving the air thick and Samantha covered her face to prevent from breathing it in. The training yards were empty, though only the most foolish of warriors would practice in such heat even if it were not a day of service. They passed around a large area encircled by a short fence. Practice dummies set up on sticks jutted out from the earth at severe angles and wooden planks were arranged around the entire area to simulate fighting around obstacles. Beyond that was the smithy's hut, a dark cave-like structure that baked like an oven when the fires were lit on a cool day; Samantha couldn't imagine what it was like on a hot day.

"Behold! Some shade!" He spread his arms wide. "What did I tell you?"

He was staring across the yard to a barn; the stables. She could see that the horses inside were laying down in the straw, hiding from the sun's rays. The hunting dogs were panting, their tongues lolled out of their mouths so far, the tips licked the dirt. The flapping of a few birds could be heard coming from the rafters above.

They stepped into the shade and the dirty animals filled her nose before she could stop it. Lined on the walls were saddles and riding crops, a pitchfork for the straw and a large shovel tinged with brown – she knew what it was used for. She turned to Corbinian, "You didn't mention you were leading me to your room!"

He chuckled at her joke, "Surprise! Come, I'll show you my bed."

The shade lowered the temperature to a palatable level as they collapsed onto a bale of hay, soft, scratchy, and utterly stinky. Samantha knew this smell would be on her when she arrived home.

"Now, we just need some servants." Corbinian closed his eyes.

"I'm going to need a bath." Samantha flopped her arms out wide, and a horse nearby blew his lips out loud.

"In that case, we'll need a washbasin, ten liters of goat's milk to fill it—"

"Goat's milk? Are you bathing or cooking me in it?"

"You don't bathe in milk, then?" He turned his head. "I've been searching the world for someone else who does, but my mother seems like the only one."

She let loose a string of uncontrolled giggles; the Duchess of Starkhaven bathed in milk! Such extravagance! Such opulence! Surely there were others, but who would own to it? For a fleeting moment, Samantha wondered what the experience was like before she pictured Corbinian's mother, droplets of milk clinging to the ends of her long flowing black hair and her foreigner-skin disappearing into a mysterious pool of opaque white. She shivered at the thought.

"Sammie…" Her name on his tongue broke her away from those musings. "I'd like your consent to speak to your father."

"About what?"

"I'm going to ask for his permission."

"His permission?" Samantha lifted herself on her elbows. "Are you going to request to _court_ me, Beenie?"

"What? People don't do that anymore?"

"Well… I don't know." She felt a little foolish, because he seemed serious. "No one says anything…" And she meant their friends.

"Don't you think they should? I mean fun is fun, but what's the point otherwise?"

She smiled a little sheepishly, but before she could answer, he reached over with a warm hand, bringing her body to his, and though she was sticky under her light dress, she rather liked this kind of heat.

"Sammie...." He wrapped her up in his arms. "You don't think I'm serious about you? I'm devastated."

"Clearly." She crossed her arms behind his neck.

"I don't duel cousins for just anyone."

"A lesson from Lord Kendall, no doubt."

"I'll prove it to you," he whispered before he kissed that spot behind her ear that made her back arch. She crushed her eyes shut, giggling like mad at the tickling sensation that danced down to her hips, but he had his arms tightly around her body as he shook his head into the side of her neck.

“ _Beenie!_ ” 

She let out a small yelp, calling his name again and again; laughing and finally saying something like she believed him, until he stopped and lifted himself from her only to smile impishly.

"Told you I'd make it worth your while."

And when he walked her home just as he promised, winking at her as he kissed her hand goodbye, she felt like a stray cat come home from an adventure with a mysterious tom, dirty and ruffled with straw in her hair as she shoelessly stepped through the door to her estate.


	5. 9:25 Dragon, Spring

**9:25 Dragon, Spring**

_Sebastian,_

_Thank you for your letter for I know you to be a gentleman and was so reminded by your eloquent apology. I hope you know that I would never hold hard feelings in my heart for you, and while your behavior that evening was not commendable, I know you as my life-long friend and accept your apology wholeheartedly. Indeed, I would very much like to remain friends._

_I was most disappointed not to have been afforded the opportunity of saying goodbye before you left, but Corbinian has informed me that you are faring well in Kirkwall and I believe he even plans to visit. Would that I could visit as well, but my parents aren't too fond of traveling and now that Innley has been sent to the Circle, I have been gifted with more of their attention... though I believe Beenie is trying to arrange for me to accompany him and his family to Nevarra in the spring, and I am very much excited at the prospect._

_I admit that I do not know much of your circumstances. I have only been told that you were pledged to the Chantry in Kirkwall by your parents and that you won't be returning which, I have to say, saddens my heart to think I will never see you again. However, if you can find some happiness in your new life, then my heart will surely gladden for you though I will miss the carousing, as we all will. I understand that studies within the Chantry can be all-consuming, but if you find time to write to me occasionally, I will be grateful to correspond in return._

_Also, Beenie claims many things, and if you do end up calling me cousin one day, that will surely be a surprise to us all._

_Your friend from afar,_

_Samantha Mayweather_

Samantha read over the letter three times, rewriting it once before she folded it over again and again, finally pouring a puddle of hot wax and stamping it with her family's seal. The post was coming later in the day and she intended this letter make it out before her parents could rip it open and check its contents – though she had written nothing incriminating.

With a parasol over a shoulder, she sat on one of the benches in the front gardens of her estate waiting dutifully amongst the bright green vines that framed the doorway and the colorful blooming flowers that lined the walk. The winter had been awfully dreary, and once the flowers began to bloom, all of the nobles took to the outdoors, desperate for some color.

Instead of her usual always-in-mourning shades of grey, Lady Preston sauntered by wearing a pink shawl that she had worn once or twice last season. Its fringe had traces of silver and Samantha thought, just like last season, that it was an awfully youthful piece of clothing for an elderly widow to be wearing. Lord Garrity and his son Benjamin stopped to bow and offer gentlemanly greetings, the elder wearing a taupe vest and the younger's doublet was a pleasant green with deep yellow piping. The pair looked dashing. Arianna Marziano in a strawberry-red hat and jacket had strolled by on the arm of someone Samantha didn't know, and thus assumed he was of lower rank. But it was Flora who interrupted Samantha's vigil.

From down the street, she again watched her friend, this time as Flora politely greeted the Garritys. Samantha spotted her by the traditional lavender she almost always wore, in this case a long jacket, but she wasn't carrying a sunshade nor dressed in finery; she was wearing her riding pants. That would explain why her hair was coming loose from the hastily tied ribbon, but there was something off. While her boots were dusted in dirt, her riding pants were strangely clean; usually, her saddle left marks on the back of her legs. She was massaging her forearms and kept stretching her shoulders, as though it was her upper body only that ached. From on the other side of a fence, Samantha had spent years watching her friend learn to ride, and had come to know how taxing the activity could be, not just to the clothes but to the body as well.

She leaned against the front gate, her letter firmly in the breast pocket of her light jacket as she watched Benjamin smile wide, his laughter traveling down the street on the breeze, but Flora didn't match his enthusiasm at their meeting. Samantha often wondered why her friend spurned most suitor's advances – who or what was she waiting for?

Flora was hopelessly trying to pull her hair back into her ribbon when stopped to greet Samantha, "Maker… is everyone outside today?"

"Of course! It's beautiful out." Samantha watched Flora rub her wrists. "Where did you come from?"

"Nowhere," Flora answered quickly, trying to tuck her hair back into her ribbon. "I mean, I was riding."

"Where's your crop?"

"My what?"

Samantha crossed her arms across her chest, catching her friend in an obvious lie. "Your crop. You know, that stick that you hit those poor horses with."

"Oh… well, I must've left it." It only took a moment for the façade to fall. "Oh, fine! I was practicing."

"Practicing what?"

Flora lifted her fingers, which were a little callused. "I've been applying a special balm to my hands for years now so no one would notice, but it's not working as well anymore."

"Archery?" She laughed at her friend. "Whatever for?"

Flora shrugged. "I don't know. I like it. And I'm good at it, so why not?"

"Do your parents know?"

"Of course. My father bought me a new bow for my name day last year."

"You said he got you a new vanity."

"Well, he got me that, too."

Samantha nudged her friend playfully and Flora laughed a little, turning her eyes back to the street and they both relaxed back on the bench under the shade of Samantha's parasol. Flora looked like she could use the rest.

Several families walked by, ladies and lords, and the girls said hello to all, politely smiling and nodding and standing up to curtsy to some of the wealthier nobles. Some dirty children managed to appear as well, scrambling around and away and then there were some strange adventuring folk, dirty as street rats from the elven alienage, who paid the girls absolutely no mind whatsoever. A few Templars walked by, some sneering and others leering, but from the safety of her front gate, Samantha could treat them with as much disdain or politeness as she liked.

Finally, the postman appeared and she handed over her letter.

"How long until it reaches Kirkwall?" she asked.

"'Bout a tenday, mistress," the man replied politely. "Kirkwall isn't that far, but she isn't so close either. Might be more if the rains come early."

"Thank you." She offered a small courtesy bow which was his cue to leave and she checked the letters in her hand for anything addressed to her but everything was for her father and mother.

Flora turned a suspicious eye her way. "Who are you sending a letter to in Kirkwall?"

"Sebastian. He finally—wrote to me." She almost said _apologize_ , but she didn't want to have to explain why.

"Oh."

Samantha leafed through the letters and packages, wondering if she received any. There was a letter from Orlais, friends who had moved from Starkhaven two summers ago because they just couldn't take the heat any longer. There were three invitations to parties coming up in the next month; Samantha recognized the names of the families in town and knew their party-inviting stationary. There was a small package from Markham, likely from her uncle on her father's side who was always traveling to the strangest places, often small towns rather than big cities, and without fail would send some small trinket from the various placed he stayed. Finally, there was a letter from the Vaels – no wait, it was from Corbinian! She recognized his lazy handwriting. But it was addressed to her father!

Flora peered over her shoulder and her eyes went wide as she reached over and snatched it from Samantha's fingers. "What's this?"

"Give it back!" Samantha chased her around the perfectly trimmed rhododendrons, but Flora was taller and she held the letter high in her hands. "Flora!"

She just laughed, sing-songing her teases. "Whatever could this be?!"

Samantha laughed as she chased her friend into her estate, the door swinging wide and the servants were left to close it before the heat of the summer invaded their carefully shaded interior. Flora easily out-maneuvered Samantha, who was stuck in a long dress as she gave chase up the stairs and down the hall and into what used to be Innley's room, finally cornering Flora near the far window, the one that overlooked all of Starkhaven all the way to the Circle.

"It's addressed to my father!" Samantha pointed the tip of her parasol in Flora's direction. "You can't open it!"

Flora opened up the sides a little without breaking the wax seal, bringing it up to her squinting eyes. "Maybe I can—"

But Samantha snatched it away just like that and went careening down the hallway to her parents’ study, Flora on her heels and they were laughing like they used to when the things that held the most import were flowers and dresses and books, and where to go outside to catch butterflies and learning to dance and sing and play the piano, way before topics like boys seemed to overshadow all of those things.

They burst into her parents’ study, the large wooden doors swinging so wide that they banged up against the wall and her mother let out a cry of shock at the suddenness and loudness of their entrance.

"Father!" Samantha was breathless with Flora behind her, but she quickly composed herself when he gave her an incredulous scowl. "Pardon us, Father, the post has arrived."

"Maker's breath!" Samantha's mother exclaimed with a hand on her chest. "The post arrives every day, Samantha, I don't see why this day should require such tumult!"

"My apologies, mother." She curtsied. "Just a bit of fun with Flora. I didn't mean to alarm—"

"We won't have this behavior from you." Her father's voice was stern. "You are no longer a child but a lady and should be acting as such."

"Yes, Father." She kept her eyes to the floor and Flora stood at her side in similar posing.

"Well, bring it here," he huffed, and she obeyed. "Ahh, now I understand. This is the Vael family seal, is it not?"

Samantha was going to answer him, but her mother's interest piqued enough to turn her nerves from frayed to calm. "Oh? Are we invited to another brunch? I so enjoyed their company."

"Not exactly," her father grumbled, reading the letter. "Samantha, you may go."

"But father—"

"Are you going to make it a habit to defy my wishes?" He looked up to her pointedly.

"No, Father. I'm sorry." She curtsied again before turning on her heels and leaving the study. Flora grabbed her by the hand, and they broke into a run down the hallway to Samantha’s room. Once inside, they closed the door, laughing like ridiculous girls who had just got away with breaking all the rules.

"Beenie sent that, didn't he?" Flora plopped down on Samantha's giant bed. "That's just not fair. Sebastian was sent away but Corbinian was allowed to stay!"

"Yes, but we still get letters."

"Maybe you do," she muttered sullenly.

Samantha had always known that Flora thought Sebastian was handsome – they both did – and once or twice she may have suspected that Flora would have reciprocated such feelings had Sebastian propositioned her, but Flora had never told her about any such event. Though they were best friends, as the years had taken their adolescence, Flora had grown with secrets. Samantha had watched as she spoke less and less about things large and small and everything in between.

At first it was little things, like special dolls from foreign countries that she didn't want Samantha to order or specialty sweets that she wanted served at her parties and no one else's and so she would never tell anyone what she liked. As they got older, Flora clammed up about nearly all of her preferences; clothes, jewelry, food, sport, boys, girls, places, and numerous other favorites. It was like she didn't want to like what everyone else liked and didn't want anyone else to like what she liked and always displayed irritation when someone else would declare fondness for something she had shown affection for. It left Samantha feeling somewhat sad, because she would go on and on about her likes and dislikes and Flora wouldn’t say much in return aside from the usual _that's lovely_ or _good choice_. Only when pressed would her friend admit to her fancies.

Enough time had passed for the secrets to form a life of their own, breeding inside her like the fish in the Minanter. Now it was archery – it didn't seem to matter what it was, just that no one else did it, and no one knew about it. But on this day, Flora finally lowered the curtain and Samantha spied her friend true.

It started with Samantha's offhand comment: "If it's royalty you want, Goran seems quite keen on you."

"Oh Maker, don't make me vomit." She stuck out her tongue in disgust. "I miss our friends, I guess. Ruxton, too. He's always going on about Sebastian. Think he'll ever come back?"

"No," Samantha said simply. "He's a brother of the Chantry, likely to become an initiate. He will take Andraste for his bride and—"

"Oh, just stop!" Flora brought her hands to her face, throwing herself backwards on Samantha's bed, her elbows pointed to the ceiling. "Please just stop."

"Flora?" Samantha rolled to her side, propping herself up on her elbow. She imagined that if she could see Flora's face, she would see the rest of her friend's secrets.

"It's nothing."

"It's not nothing!" When Flora didn't respond, Samantha said, "What did I say? Is it Sebastian?"

Flora made a whimpering noise.

Samantha hopped up to her knees. "It _is_ Sebastian!" But her smile faded. "Oh, Flora…"

Her friend sighed loudly, her arms falling out to the sides. "He would visit our estate in Kirkwall and stay with us at least three times a year. He and his brothers and his mother while his father had business in town organizing trading partners and such. We used to play chess and read books and walk around Hightown. The lot of us used to be so close. Then we all got older, and his brothers married and Brett married, and now they all have tiny babies and…"

"Why did you never tell him?" Samantha asked gently.

"I did!" she wallowed in response. "It was a summer night in Kirkwall, the night of the Annual Masked Ball – you know that big party they have every year since the Empress visited almost… what, ten years ago? Whatever, anyway… we weren't allowed to go, and so we went to the roof, drank a bunch of wine, watched the revelers in their crazy masks and elaborate gowns… And he kissed me. Under the stars with the music in the air. It was glorious… But then he didn't remember anything the next time I saw him. He must have been really drunk. But I remembered. And now he's gone…"

"Why did you never tell _me_?"

"Because…" Flora sat up, finally meeting Samantha's eyes, her own brimming with guilt, something she rarely showed. "I thought he liked you. And I was afraid you liked him back and I didn't want… Oh, I'm terrible."

Samantha just smiled and grabbed her hand. "I've never had my eye on him. And even if I did, if I had known how you felt, I would have pushed him from my thoughts right then. There are plenty of boys out there, Flora. Let Sebastian go and find another to fill your heart."

"You're so much better at this than me." Flora sighed loudly again, and then she turned to look about the room. The afternoon sunshine softly pushed through the curtains and they sat for a moment before she said: "Have you got any wine?"

They laughed, but Samantha silently sighed at all the boys who pined for Flora Harimann, and the one boy who likely never would.

"It's just as well." Flora sighed. "My mother always drove his family batty. She is so jealous of his mother with her wealth and stature…"

"Well, your mother is an overachiever then, because the Vaels are about as wealthy and stature-ly as they come!"

"Speaking of, I'd better go. My mother will have my hide if I'm not washed up in time for dinner."

"Oh, right!" Samantha jumped to her feet in agreement.

She hugged Flora before seeing her to the door and rushing back upstairs to clean up. While brushing her hair, she spied the locket inside her vanity but instead decided on a diamond pendant that her father had given her on her fourteenth name day. When she arrived for dinner, her mother looked positively rosy, aglow with some kind of delightfulness dancing around her head. On the other side of the table, her father looked grumpy.

"Father, may I ask what was in the letter?" Samantha asked politely as an elf poured her a glass of sweetwine and another elf served her a fresh cut of salmon topped with some kind of creamy sauce.

Her father grumbled, and so her mother answered for him, the corners of her mouth were bouncing all over her face as if she was trying to compose herself and failing. "The young Lord Vael, Corbinian, has requested an audience with your father."

"Oh?" Samantha played innocent as another elf rolled some asparagus spears onto a separate plate. "Has he a position for father? Perhaps at court?"

"No." Her father spoke plainly. "He wishes to speak about you."

"Me? Well, I certainly hope I have done nothing to offend…"

Another elf set down a small single-serving soufflé on yet another plate.

"Oh don't be silly, darling," her mother said. "We believe his intentions are honorable."

"Honorable…" Samantha nearly laughed at the word, for Beenie was honorable in the way that all scoundrels were. "Are you implying—?"

"Cut the act." Her father's tone was biting. "I know that you spend a lot of time with him, but from everything we know about him, he is reckless, juvenile, without respect for his elders or the young ladies he is often rumored with."

Samantha lifted an eyebrow, feeling that she knew more about Corbinian than her parents. He was often rumored to be in the company of many girls before his year spent in Nevarra. Upon his return however, it seemed like he had changed all of that. Though, perhaps still wicked, she hadn't caught him staring at any girl except for her. Her father's mention of it, however, left splinter of doubt in her mind – was Corbinian truly different? Or was she now the conquest? Her parents were definitely more strict than the rest of her friend's parents – could that been part of her allure? She didn't like having these thoughts.

"Do you like him, then? Do you want me to give him a favorable answer?" Her father pressed her for an answer.

And there it was: a direct question that she could finally give a direct answer to. She felt weird about the answer for moment, because it was sort of like asking for permission to kiss him madly in front of them, which felt awkward, and what if her father was right? Though still apprehensive in her dealings with Corbinian, she had begun to suspect he meant his claim of seriousness with her. What if she were mistaken?

"Well?" her father prompted her again, seemingly aware of his intimidation tactics.

"Yes, father. I would," she said, and then realized that she had been holding her breath. The servants behind her sounded like they were holding their breath, too.

"So you like this boy." It wasn't a question.

"Yes, Father."

"How much?" he demanded.

Samantha blinked. "Pardon?"

" _How much_?" he repeated, scowling at her.

Maker, did they already imagine her virginity spoiled?

"Um… a lot?"

"How much is that? If you can't answer—"

"Darling," her mother interrupted, and Samantha felt like she might cry under his interrogation. "You're being awfully harsh with her. Allow her to answer you with her heart."

He huffed, grouchy and grumbling. "Fine."

And then both of her parents looked to her expectantly, and she just stared back at them.

"Darling…" Her mother's gentle voice prompted her again, but Samantha suspected she just wanted her to convince her father to speak of Corbinian favorably. With his agreement, Lady Mayweather could tell all of her friends that her daughter would soon be royalty.

Samantha swallowed hard, glancing down at the glistening pink fish on her plate. "Beenie and I have been friends for as long as I can remember." She looked to both her mother and father. The former had her brows raised and her mouth turned upwards, encouraging her to continue, and the latter had his brows creased, his mouth turned down as if he had just eaten raw sewage. "He is a gentleman, he would never injure me—" At least, she hoped that were true. "—and he is going to take the Oath of Starkhaven." Her father's brow's relaxed a little at that. "And I think further proof is that he wrote to you requesting an audience to discuss this." Her father's frown let up. "He is royalty, to be sure—" Her mother liked that part. "—but he is also a noble and he will be kind to me. He has always been."

And that last part was true, she thought. He had always been kind to her… well, at least since that incident with the painting oils when she was five. Yes, he was her friend, and somewhere along the way he had become someone more.

"I'll consider it." Her father picked up his silver and cut into his fish. "Send them a letter will you, dear?"

"Of course, darling," her mother gushed, nearly breathless in anticipation of the task.

The letter was simply an acknowledgment and their non-refusal, but it was sort of a refusal in itself. It stated that her father would like to know him better before he granted him audience. Her mother penned it that evening while Samantha continued to read _The History of the Chantry_ , having made it past the first two chapters which could have been books in themselves. Her father's customary page-crinkling was a little more animated that night, but Samantha and her mother ignored it.

No doubt her mother would press matters on this topic with her father behind chamber doors, because after all, it was an advantageous match – both financially and socially should it progress that far. But there was the matter of Corbinian's reputation, which was, to say amiably, not entirely agreeable. Samantha knew her parents, and it was only a matter of time before Corbinian changed their minds about him, assuming this wasn't some elaborate setup to satiate some carnal desire of his.

It was only after the lights were out later that night, when she dwelled on matters deeper that she thought herself foolish for thinking so unfavorably of Corbinian. Such a ruse would have been entirely out of character for him. She was certain that she couldn't do worse, but she wasn't certain she could do much better than the Marquess of Starkhaven, Corbinian Vael.


	6. 9:25 Dragon, Summer

**9:25 Dragon, Summer**

_Samantha, Samantha, fairest of the fair,_

_The stories always describe Nevarra as beautiful and lavish, like Starkhaven's slightly less wealthy cousin. Don't believe them, Sammie! It's a brutal place. There are wild men here wandering the streets, barely clothed, dragging women behind them by their hair. It's all I can do to avoid their spears and decipher their grunts, and only because I have been trained by the masters at court. I'm always being stopped on the street and asked, "And where are you headed on this fine day?" as if one never travels about town for the enjoyment of it – truly, these Nevarrans are a savage people! So don't worry, all right? You aren't missing anything._

_My mother keeps saying how fine the weather has been, my father keeps giving me stern looks, and Goran disappears better than an Antivan Crow. Basically, it's a bore without you here. I was ready to return to Starkhaven the moment we arrived, but I will endure the trials of this place if only to build some character and know suffering. Sometimes, often when intoxicated, I even miss the talks with your father. Opining on the dangers of mages and the tensions between Orlais and Ferelden never sounds appealing until you're faced with yet another party, endless in its predictability, what with the same string of giggling girls and stupid boys who can't grasp the idea of sarcasm much less form coherent sentences. When I suggested that the Pentaghasts should tear down their palace and just build an elaborate tent, since they never seem to be at home and are always out in the wilderness anyway, they looked at me like I was serious and wanted to argue how impractical that was._

_Perhaps it's best your father didn't allow you to come; I fear these people would have sucked the life from your bones as they attempt with mine. I guess seeing my family is nice and everything and my aunt loves you already, as I have described you down to the last detail. She is looking forward to meeting you, as I believe she plans to stay with us in Starkhaven for a short time as we travel back from the much-anticipated royal wedding in Ferelden._

_Write to me, Sammie. I miss you._

_Your Royal Scoundrel, Corbinian_

So he missed her... The Marquess of Starkhaven, inheritor of the all the land north of the Northern Gate to Starkhaven and just south of the marsh, future Captain of Starkhaven's Royal Militia, and heir to the Golden Torch of Corin… and he missed Samantha. A nobleman's daughter of no great importance, stature, descendent, or wealth.

"What are you grinning about?" Benjamin Garrity asked her, smiling from ear to ear.

They were all seated in the gardens, Benjamin sitting next to Arianna Marziano, Helena Luxley, and Vincent Tyler, the latter two clasping hands like they would both die if they ever let go.

During the summer months when their friends were vacationing in exotic places, those who were left – and always Samantha was left in Starkhaven – gathered together and read the letters they received from their absent friends. Samantha could have brought that letter with her, but she had left it at home as she’d read it so many times the edges of the parchment were turning soft. She had received another letter from Corbinian the day previously, and was intending to read the newest one instead, but his words still popped into her thoughts every now and then, most notably when she was near the royal palace, as she was today.

Just before the royal family left Starkhaven to start their summer tour of Thedas, the prince had held an elaborate ceremony to open the royal gardens to the public – something no prince before had ever done. The nobles groused that commoners and the impoverished would likely destroy the neighborhood, but those complaints had not yet found solid grounding. A few commoner children ran around attempting to catch butterflies, but that was about as close to roughhousing as anyone got. It also helped that guards were posted strategically around the gardens during visiting hours to discourage troublemakers.

The five friends had taken the opportunity to enjoy each other's company in the summertime gardens, which were alive with color and fragrance. While reading their letters aloud, every once in a while, a breeze swept through and ruffled the ribbons of Arianna's dress, of which there were many. Helena was sitting under a parasol, and Samantha, like Arianna, was wearing a wide-brimmed hat styled with a long lace ribbon. Benjamin and Vincent sat exposed to the sun, but neither seemed to mind it. An insect buzzed nearby but no one looked away from Samantha.

Arianna pressed her further, her tongue danced over the words in her thick Antivan accent. "A love letter, yes? From Beenie?"

Samantha lifted up the newest letter, still folded in her hand. "This is not a love letter, and if it were, I wouldn't read it to any of you."

As if choreographed, the four of them groaned, rolling their heads around on their shoulders and Samantha laughed at their disappointment. The five of them were seated on soft blankets, accompanied by a small picnic basket that held a bottle of wine – which was nearly empty. They had consumed the mangos that Arianna brought, the sweetmeats that Benjamin provided, the finger sandwiches that Helena Luxley contributed, and the shortcake that Samantha offered – all made by their respective house chefs – and were now working their way through Starkhaven's famous Tyler Estates Wine. Vincent's family owned several vineyards just outside the city's southern gates.

It had been a boring spring, and the early summer proved even less fun. It seemed like half of Starkhaven had decided to leave town. The entire royal family had traveled to Nevarra City, just as they had planned, and they were going to swing back south and head through Kirkwall on their way to Ferelden to attend the wedding of the newly crowned King Cailan Theirin and Anora Mac Tir. An arranged marriage – those Fereldens were strange. No one in Starkhaven had been arranged to be married in over two hundred years, and that last time had been a farmer wedding his daughter to a butcher's son.

That was not to say that parents didn't encourage matches – in fact, Helena and Vincent were the result of such encouragement, as Lady Luxley had been quick to transfer her daughter's affection from Innley to Vincent, perhaps as a measure of protection for their family. To be associated with magic was a black mark on any family's name.

"Who's first?" Samantha asked the group.

"Me!" Arianna beamed. "I have a letter from Flora, but it's a month old."

Flora's family spent part of every spring and summer at their estate in Kirkwall, and most assumed it was because of Lord Harimann's holdings, of which several were in their sister city to the south. Samantha had received a letter from her friend as well, and assumed that both letters said the same thing, but Arianna's wasn't as personal as hers, and Samantha wondered if she had finally broken down Flora's thick wall of secrets.

Arianna began.

"Dear Arianna." Her accent rolled the r's wildly. "Ruxton and I have been in Kirkwall for two months and I have to say that my memories of this city seem false. Our estate here is so small sometimes I can't breathe. My room barely has enough space to fit all my furniture. The noblemen and women dress like peasants in dull fabrics without patterns or hats!"

Helena laughed out loud. "No hats?! Andraste's mercy… how can _anyone_ stand to live in Kirkwall?"

Samantha giggled. "Maybe they all have a lot of hair?"

"I hear the Viscount is bald," Vincent chimed in. "His head is as smooth and shiny as an apple."

"And just as dense!" Benjamin had the final say and everyone laughed at his joke.

Arianna continued. "I wore my lavender vest, the one with the golden ribbing, to service the other day, and I felt overdressed! Maybe I was too young to notice or perhaps Starkhaven has grown more luxurious over the years, but I feel like a tourist in this city that has historically always felt like a second home. Truly, it breaks my heart. Next week we set sail for Ferelden. I suppose I can't expect a great step up in decorum."

"That's for sure," Benjamin interrupted; he was never one to withhold his thoughts.

Arianna ignored him. "I saw Sebastian Vael the other day during service, and he seemed quite different in appearance, but still his usual self in temperament – he sends his warm regards."

Samantha bit her tongue, because Flora had written something entirely different in her letter. She had waxed poetic on how beautiful he was – it had been two years since anyone had seen Sebastian and she claimed he had become one of the most beautiful men she had ever seen, and even the chanters in the Chantry, most of whom were women, were taken with him. But he hadn't spoken to Flora much at all. In fact, she had conveyed extreme disappointment in how distant he’d seemed. She had invited him for tea, for walks, tried to make him laugh with jokes and stories about Starkhaven, but nothing seemed to get through. _I can't make him see me,_ she had written in obvious frustration. Flora's mother, Lady Johane, had encouraged her daughter to keep after him – marriage to a royal was probably Lady Johane's dream for her daughter, but Flora wanted to be loved. In her letter to Samantha, she had lamented her mother's cold and loveless marriage, stating that she would never settle for what her mother had – no matter the gain in title and stature the match might bestow upon her.

Flora's mother was not of noble birth and not from Starkhaven. She had been born in a small village just outside of Tantervale, Starkhaven's sister city to the west. A beauty in her youth, Lady Johane had caught the eye of a young Lord Harimann at just sixteen, and smartly wed herself into noble status. The pair had produced two children in four years, but it seemed to everyone in Starkhaven that their coupling was out of obligation. Lady Johane was a cold woman; she didn't even seem to like holding her husband's arm during walks after service.

Arianna got Samantha's attention when she read: "Beenie arrived yesterday, and I never thought a Vael's skin could turn more brown. The Nevarran sunshine sure did him some favors. Unfortunately, his brother also arrived with him, and the more he paws at me, the more I want to retch. Fortunately, Beenie has been most kind in keeping me apprised of Goran's plans so that I may avoid him."

"Ha!" Vincent laughed, shaking his head. "If she knew him, she wouldn't think that about him."

Arianna set down the letter. "Oh? You know Goran Vael so well, do you?"

Helena turned a smart eye to Arianna. "Let's just say that he's not as weak as everyone thinks."

"Oh, ho!" Arianna bounced on her blanket. "Secrets! You must tell!"

"Wait a minute…" Benjamin held out his hands; his wine glass was empty. "Is this going to ruin my impression of Goran? ‘Cause if so, I don't want to hear it."

Arianna shushed him, and he laughed in response.

Vincent smiled. "He's actually a thoughtful guy if you ever talk to him. I mean, if you can get him to talk to you. I just don't think he pays much attention to people. Makes him seem, I don't know… dim."

Samantha listened to the exchange with some interest, recalling her own painful conversation with Goran over eggs at brunch the previous autumn. Had he really just been distracted? Maybe he knew where Seheron was after all.

"Interestink." Arianna didn't talk like everyone else. "I will have to speak with him when he returns. Maybe he is more like—" She lowered her voice suggestively. "—the strong, silent type."

"Oh you're so bad, Arianna!" Helena giggled and Samantha laughed at them both.

"Please continue." Vincent waved his free hand at Arianna and she gave him a nod of deference.

"I wish both Samantha and you could have come along, but her parents are more strict than everyone else's, and your father whisks you away to exotic places – more exciting than Kirkwall and Ferelden, I imagine."

"Why didn't your parents let you go?" Helena asked Samantha, true curiosity in her tone. Everyone had known about the Vael family's invitation to her.

"My father despises the very idea of setting a single foot anywhere near that dirty country," Samantha explained. "It's just as well because my mother claims an allergy to mabari, which is odd considering that she's never even seen one."

"They are gross," Arianna confirmed; she had traveled all over Thedas with her father – Flora was right about that. "Slobbery and itchy. And so stinky. Honestly."

Benjamin groaned again. "Great. So Flora will return with fleas as souvenirs!"

Arianna muttered something about how that statement was true before she continued with Flora's letter. "Sometimes, I wish my parents were too, but their attention is always elsewhere. Even now they are overly preoccupied with expanding this house as they have hired a mason and a carpenter and are looking into tunneling under the basement to create another floor. Indeed, they probably feel—"

Arianna paused, staring at the page, finally showing it to Samantha who laughed and said: "Claustrophobic."

"Claus—what?" She didn't know the word.

"It means…" Benjamin's eyes rolled around in his head as he tried to figure out a way to describe it. "It means…"

Helena took over. "It's like when you are feeling crowded."

" _Che cosa_?" Arianna didn't get it, this time in Antivan.

"Like being in an enclosed space," Vincent offered.

Samantha finished for him. "And feeling like you're going to suffocate."

"Oh!" Arianna beamed; she was an amiable girl. She returned to the letter and read, "Indeed, they probably feel claus-ter-pho-bic at its efficiency as well. I suppose I should keep my eyes open next week for some teyrn's son… maybe I can have a wild fling in Ferelden and come back besotted. Wouldn't that be somesink? Hope you are well, Flora."

Benjamin leaned back on his elbows. "That would be _something_."

"She will never settle down," Arianna lamented with an airy voice, ignoring Benjamin's mockery. "Flora is too stubborn for a match, I sink."

"If she knows what she wants, she should go after it," Helena announced, and everyone turned their heads. "There's no need for any of us to settle for a loveless match."

Samantha had never seen her display such conviction, and she briefly wondered what kind of match Helena and Innley would have made. Samantha sat up straight. "I agree. Flora is set to inherit a vast estate – she doesn't need to marry for money like her mother did. She should wait for—"

"For what? Love?" Benjamin smirked.

"Yes," Samantha declared with loftiness. "For love."

Arianna raised her glass into the air though it was empty. " _Per amore_!"

Helena lifted her empty glass as well and Samantha joined them while both boys rolled their eyes.

" _Love_ ," Benjamin huffed. "You girls are all such suckers. Love is a myth, a delusion – my father says so. He says he's seen both men and women do absolutely insane things and claim it was for love. And you know, people claim love all the time – most likely it's just the wine talking." And then he lifted his glass, too.

Benjamin's father, Lord Garrity, the title bestowed on his family two centuries ago by the prince of Starkhaven for loyal service at Court, advised the Starkhaven Council on matters legal and criminal. Having studied the law in four different cities, he was well versed. His opinions on matters of romance were likely formed because he had personally seen to several divorces. Such dissolutions were scandalous in Starkhaven, but elsewhere, like the Anderfels and Rivain, marriages came and went with the tide.

"You are such a cynical, Benji," Arianna declared, and no one pointed out her mispronunciation of the word. "Love is grand! Everyone should fall in love. At least a dozen times!"

Benjamin shook his head reprovingly. "You are so _Antivan_. Name me one married couple in love."

The Antivan girl smiled wide, brushing her long blonde hair over her shoulder in triumph as she stated: "Our future prince of Starkhaven."

"HA!" Benjamin startled her with his guffaw. "He only cares about his heir!"

" _Bugie_!" She accused him of lying. "He returned just last week – he cut their trip short because he cared about his wife's health! Not just the baby, _scemo_." _Scemo_ was her favorite nickname for Benjamin, and as best Samantha could tell, it was another word for _stupid_.

"Not a chance." Benjamin was smiling so widely at having riled Arianna up, that Samantha thought they were going to start kissing madly at any second. It wouldn’t be the first time.

"I heard that they made it as far as Orlais before they discovered her condition," Samantha announced, trying to put out the foreplay fires. "And he didn't want to set one foot into Orzammar because our future leader believes the dwarves provide better medicine to nugs than humans. I, for one, am quite disappointed because I am certain that the dwarves could have taught her some nursery rhymes that could double as drinking games."

Helena giggled. "I bet everything in Orzammar could double as drinking games. Even their drinking games."

Vincent chuckled at his girl, never letting go of her hand.

"Love is a drinking game, too." Benjamin lifted the bottle of wine from the picnic basket, disappointed to find it empty. "Because inevitably, you wake up one day and realize you're out of booze and married to a person who is absolutely intolerable without alcohol."

"Not everyone's marriage is like your parents’!" Arianna teased.

Benjamin turned a playful glance her way. "I think you'd be surprised, Ari. Men and women aren't made to be monogamous. Love is just society's way of tricking us into it."

"Ugh," Helena stuck out her tongue. "Sammie, please save us and read Beenie's letter now."

Arianna clapped her hands. "Yes! I bet there's a love letter in there somewhere!"

Samantha laughed obligingly, unfolding the parchment in the shade of her wide-brimmed hat. "I received this only yesterday… To my Samantha—" Arianna giggled and Benjamin groaned, but Samantha steeled her resolve and continued: "You missed one hell of a wedding. Cailan and Anora were wed in a traditional ceremony, but when Ruxton, brandishing a sword and wearing only a cape, swung from the chandelier professing his love for the bride, that's when things started to get out of hand."

Helena gasped, but Vincent only laughed. "It's clearly in jest!"

Samantha gave him a mischievous grin and continued: "Of course, Cailan wouldn't stand for such an insult and challenged Ruxton to a duel. The duo met on top of the city's jail – an odd meeting place, but the people of Ferelden are an odd lot – and dueled to the death."

"Oh no!" Arianna brought her gloved hands to her mouth. "No one should make light of duels! I've watched men and women get cut down for much less! It is not so pretty a sight."

"What?" Benjamin didn't believe a word of it. "Where have you seen street duels?"

Arianna shuddered at the memory. "My father took me home on my last name day, _scemo_. When we got off the boat, there were two men arguing over the price of fish. They decided to butcher each other instead."

"Eww," Samantha breathed.

Helena made sour face. "Don't tell stories like that!"

"Yeah, really. We just ate." Vincent agreed.

"He asked!" Arianna turned on them all, and in response they leveled their blame on Benjamin, who just laughed.

"Go ahead." Benjamin waved his hand. "How does it end? Does Ruxton die?"

Samantha lifted the letter up, giving Benjamin her best warning glare before she continued. "I'm sorry to report that Ruxton won't be returning because he's now the new King of Ferelden."

Arianna and Benjamin burst out laughing, but Helena looked confused as Vincent patted her hand gently.

"It's probably a joke," her assured her. "Keep going, Sammie."

"Goran missed the entire show, and indeed I rarely saw him because he had discovered a place called The Pearl, which up until three days before we left, everyone thought was an art gallery but turned out to be a brothel."

More laughter ensued but Helena was aghast, and she turned her head away from them all.

Samantha thought it best to keep going. "My aunt is dying to meet you and has requested to dine with your family when we return before she travels on back to Nevarra. Truly, I think she loves me more because of you and I might have even said a few things in my drunken idiocy that made her weep. Of course now she thinks I possess a talent at wordplay and actually requested bits of poetry! Poetry! From me! But I'll be home in less than a month – in time for your name day celebration! Your Paragon, Beenie."

Silence. The four of them stared at her, expecting the letter to continue and when it didn't, Benjamin was the first to speak. "So… what about Ruxty?"

"His Highness?" Samantha asked innocently.

Benjamin exchanged a glance with Vincent. "Come on!"

"Really?" Arianna widened her eyes. "No… he's joking!"

Samantha couldn't hold it back any longer and pointed her finger at Benjamin. "I had you! I totally had you."

"Damn you, Sammie!" He thumped over the picnic basket and snatched the letter from her fingers, finishing the last bit. "P.S. Everything about King Ruxton was a lie. Cailan and Anora got married. The end. P.P.S. By the way, I miss the—"

Samantha hopped up and yanked the letter back before he could finish the sentence and Benjamin's mouth opened wide in revelation.

"Shut up!" she warned him before he even spoke.

Arianna bounced up and down again. "Oh, the love letter bits!"

Samantha pointed a finger at him. "Not a word."

He offered an amused bow, as insolent as it was exaggerated, and she knew that Arianna would have the last sentence out of him before the end of the day. Stupid Benjamin Garrity… though she couldn't blame him; she would have done the same to him.

"It's getting late," Helena said, spying the sun hanging above the horizon.

"I'll walk you home." Vincent was quick to offer.

"Oh, yes, of course."

Samantha inwardly sighed; from the way Helena looked at Vincent, she doubted that this was a union of love.

Benjamin and Arianna continued to bicker, and Samantha quietly snuck out of the garden with her shoes in her hand. She loved the feel of the granite path on her bare feet. So smooth and cool. As she walked home, she read his letter again, feeling certain that Benjamin was wrong about the idea of love.

When she arrived home, there was an unopened letter waiting for her in the hands of her favorite servant – her favorite, because she accepted bribes to keep letters secret so Samantha’s parents wouldn't read them – and it had the grand seal of the Chantry of Kirkwall upon it. Curious. Sebastian had written her a letter? Once behind the closed door of her room, she set down at her writing desk and cracked the seal.

_Samantha,_

_Please forgive the long delay of this response._

_I have wanted to write to you for some time now, but sometimes, quite often when I think of you, the weight of regret takes the words from me and locks them into my heart. I have been deep in meditation here at the Chantry in Kirkwall, praying to Andraste and I didn't feel I could write to you until I had some kind of answer to the purpose of my life._

_About three months ago, I was sneaking out of the Chantry to a late-night rendezvous… which turned out to be with the Grand Cleric, Elthina. I was caught and I knew it, but she set a heavy bag of coin in my hands, and it was enough to run away to any land and make a new life, free from my parents and titles and the Chantry and everyone, but when I thought about where I should go and what I should do, all I could think was that I would be found drunken on the floor of some tavern somewhere, scraped up and thrown out with the rest of the garbage. It was then that I thought of your letter._

_You claim I am a gentleman and a good person, but I am not and I was not. I think about how I was in Starkhaven… useless, aimless, selfish._

_It was your words in your letter that shamed me more than you could ever know, and before I knew what I was doing, I was back inside the Chantry, and I gave the bag of coin back to Elthina and went back to my room. I think Andraste led me here, to Kirkwall, to Elthina, who has been more of a mother to me than my very own. She is compassionate and wise and everything a Grand Cleric should be._

_I feel so small in the world now. I never fully understood that we are only here because of Andraste's sacrifice and it fills me with a shame greater than I can bear that I treated my life so worthlessly when it should have been treasured, every moment of every day, and every person I ever knew should have been treated with kindness and love and respect._

_I am not writing to shame you, or to talk you into changing your life. I think I made that mistake when Corbinian came to visit me recently, because he left quite angry. Elthina says to change another's heart, one has to lead by example, which is what I am going to try to do. I am sure you will hear all of this, but I wanted you to know what's in my heart, Sammie. You more than anyone._

_I have changed. I think I am going to stay here. I think maybe the Chantry is where I belong. I will write to you when I can, and I hope you continue to write to me._

_May the Maker watch over you,_

_Sebastian_

Just his name. No longer a Vael. No longer a prince. A new city with a new family, but Samantha wondered about this new purpose: was it is something he felt strongly about, or was it strongly felt about by those around him?


	7. 9:25 Dragon, Autumn

**9:25 Dragon, Autumn**

"Oh, hoo, hoo, hoo!" Lady Pentaghast's sing-song laugh was utterly infectious, and her blue eyes sparkled. "My dear, you are ever as delightful as my nephew described!"

Samantha could see she had once been a great beauty. Now older, she had the fine lines of a distinguished lady and in Samantha's world, distinguished meant very, very rich. She was a Pentaghast after all. She and her sister, Corbinian's mother, were the daughters of a wealthy Nevarran nobleman whose name dated back centuries. He had been smart enough to marry them both off into extreme wealth and political stature. One sister to the Pentaghast Clan of Nevarra, a family renowned for their dragonhunting and with a standing army that the magisters of Tevinter paid notice; and one sister to the Vael family, the royal and ruling family of Starkhaven, the largest city in the Free Marches. The two sisters also bound the Pentaghasts and the Vaels together, though perhaps tenuously. Even so, it was an alliance that made many Marchers nervous.

She was dressed in the finest silks of the land, with a string of pearls around her neck that would have made the Empress of Orlais jealous, and yet Lady Pentaghast had clearly never let go of the behavior of her youth. With a smile as big as her personality, there was something in her eyes that twinkled of deviancy. Her ginger hair was well stocked with ribbons and jewelry, and every time she turned, it made a soft tinkling noise as the chains brushed up against the clasps. She wore the strangest-looking brooch that Samanth had ever seen, and if she didn't know better, she would have sworn it looked like a beetle.

Lady Pentaghast was neither skinny nor plump, rather somewhere in-between with curves that swayed from side to side with every step. Instantly likeable and never one to let a moment of silence pass her by, she had been talking non-stop throughout the last three of the dinner's five courses. This woman was clearly used to being the center of attention.

Samantha did her best to stifle her giggles like a lady should, "Lady Pentaghast, you flatter me."

"On the contrary, my dear." Her voice was soft and rich like velvet. "It is Corbinian who flatters so well. What did you say about her, darling? Hmm? Something about seeing her smile in the flowers? Yes? And her stars in the eyes – er, eyes in the stars! Yes, that was it! And then—" She paused dramatically, lifting her eyebrows and tapping her chin "—then he called it _torturous_!"

Samantha's mother was giggling like a monkey, but her father looked somewhat perplexed as this was not the Pentaghast he had expected. Goran looked a little annoyed while he continued to eat as he was once again going mostly ignored by his own parents who sat with tired expressions, mournfully lifting their forks to their mouths and back down again as though the entire evening was beyond saving.

Corbinian looked closed to mortified. "I don't recall using those exact—"

"Nonsense! Don't listen to him dear, for men tend to deny all those things stated in the heat of passion. Don't you let him get away with it!" She then turned to Samantha's mother. "Next year, you simply _must_ have her come to Nevarra City with the Vaels. I will honor her myself."

Lady Mayweather smiled. "What a splendid idea."

"I will show her Corbinian's statue. She will love that." Lady Pentaghast winked at Samantha. "Maybe the portrait of him as a boy? The artist was not as good as Goran, but it will give her an idea of what her future children will look like. Oh, hoo, hoo!"

Now it was Samantha's turn to blush, but Corbinian just said: "Ahh, yes, the statue." He looked like he wanted to crawl under the table and die.

"But there's plenty of time for that. You're both still young! I was older than you when I met my husband – may the Maker watch over his soul – and I remember how he used to read poetry to me as well. That must be where Corbinian gets it."

"But I'm not related—"

"He had the most wonderful ability to turn a phrase, and I recall several nights where he would send me poems that made my head just about spin off my body!" She sighed dramatically. "Such a romantic, he was! Just like our Corbinian here. Too bad Goran hasn't picked this up – he must be a Vael through and through!"

Goran scrunched his brows together. "What else would I—?"

"This is why that girl you pine for pays you no interest, Goran. You must _woo_ her! Are you listening? _Woo_!" She took a long drink from her brandy. "I'm going to send you some of my husband's poetry – Andraste watch over him – and perhaps you can pick up a thing or two about women."

"Oh, Maker—" Goran was turning green.

"I know the Vaels have a love of Chantry books – may the Maker bless each of you – but there are better texts out there on the words of love."

"Perhaps you could help Goran find one, then." Corbinian suggest, smiling wide at his brother who didn't seem to appreciate the suggestion.

"A fine idea! The Vaels are such a solemn lot – no offense my dear sister, to you or Duke Vael – but it's true that you simply don't have a romantic bone in your body."

The dessert course came in and Lady Pentaghast finished off her third glass of brandy only to watch with bright eyes at how it was refilled almost instantly.

"I saw that utterly enormous library, sister, which surely contains some books on the language of romance that our young Goran here can study?"

Corbinian's father just sighed.

"I seem to recall a rather thick volume of sonnets that my father gave to me – Maker preserve his memory – that you perhaps have in your collection? Of course, there are numerous texts out there, but this one in particular spoke to my heart when I was but a girl, and I am sure that Goran will be inspired by the classics! Indeed, he will."

"I don't like poetry," Goran mumbled.

"What?" Lady Pentaghast stared at him in shock. "You don't like poetry? What utter and complete nonsense! Everyone loves poetry! Darling sister, have you not been keeping up on Goran's studies? Surely, with Corbinian such an accomplished wordsmith? Of course he may be a bit dim, but surely you have time to devote to your other son!"

"Of course, sister—"

"I'm not dim!"

"There, there." She patted his hand while finishing off her fourth glass. "No offense intended, darling. Oh that dinner was just lovely, dear sister. Truly, you never fail to disappoint with the food!"

"So glad you enjoyed—"

"Nevarra City is no slouch when it comes to decadence, but this layer cake!" She dragged her fork from her mouth, savoring the last bite. "Mmmm."

Duke Vael opened his mouth, but reconsidered as he looked to his wife who gave him a small nod and a unenthusiastic smile. Reluctantly he stood up, his expression somewhat pained. "Shall we retire to the study for a spot of… tea?"

"What a marvelous idea!" Lady Pentaghast stood up and Corbinian and Goran jumped to their feet, for in Nevarra it was customary for the gentlemen to stand whenever a lady stood. "Come Goran, we have some reading to do!"

Though she had at least four glasses of brandy in her, Lady Pentaghst strode elegantly down the hallway as she led the sulking younger Vael, and Samantha noted how Goran moved much more gracefully than he did on the dance floor with Flora. The group traveled down a long hallway as wide as the granite path outside the castle, finally settling into the egregiously large Royal Library.

Books of all sizes and thicknesses stretched the walls into the receding darkness, because there weren’t enough candles to properly light every inch of the room. Where there weren't books, family heirlooms sat on display under cubes of glass, and some of them dated back to the first prince. Baleon Vael's Rattle: a gift from the Lord Chancellor of Tantervale to the first heir to the throne of Starkhaven. The Chant of Light with handwritten notes in the margins by Quinn Vael, the first of the royal family to take vows to the Chantry. Finally, in all its gleaming glory, Ironfist's Sword: a silver monstrosity that was wielded by Starkhaven's last King before the Vael's took the title of prince. Surrendered to the Chantry but loaned to the Vael's library for safekeeping, its blade was sharp and clean as the day King Ironfist handed it over.

"She's not always like this," Corbinian whispered to Samantha as he directed her to the other side of the vast room. "She doesn't drink much back in Nevarra, but once you get her outside her house, she thinks she's on vacation or something."

"I like her."

"I thought you would."

Corbinian sat next to Samantha on a small green velvet sofa in a corner, but they still spoke softly as the others settled into their own quiet conversations.

"Your father said you aren't having a lavish party this year for your name day." Corbinian opened his book – it looked like a random grab from the shelf and he didn't seem the least bit interested in it.

"Just a few friends this year for dinner in the gardens," Samantha whispered back. "My mother thought it would be ill-mannered to have two lavish parties in two consecutive years."

Lady Pentaghast's voice drifted over from the other side of the room. She didn't seem to be paying attention to Goran as she prattled on. His expression was thunderous, and his cheeks wobbled with the growing insult.

"Your brother is going to explode," she remarked casually.

"He's not used to this much attention." Corbinian mindlessly turned a page. "She paid him no notice back in Nevarra, but apparently she caught enough to learn of his fancy for Flora."

"He doesn't hide it."

"Nor should he, but he doesn't show it that well, either. He's sort of a nitwit around girls."

Samantha feigned shock. "What? You must be joking!"

He gave a half-smile. "I guess he didn't inherit all that Pentaghast charm."

"Too true." She flipped open her book, catching that her father was watching. "Often, the bonds of marriage are stronger than blood."

Corbinian smirked. At that moment Lady Pentaghast gasped loudly and Goran slapped a hand to his forehead in apparent shame for unintentionally revealing yet another personal failing.

The pair couldn't help but look in their direction, but Samantha spied something else. "Ugh, are your ears burning?"

Corbinian followed her gaze to see both of their respective mothers watching them from behind their playing cards. The pair had been whispering ever since they sat down.

"Let them talk. Doubtless their imaginations aren't anything close to our real debauchery."

Samantha reined in her giggles when she saw her father look up from his conversation. He was standing at the bookcase with Corbinian's father, who held a match to a very large pipe that protruded from his mouth. The smoke that wafted out created a foggy haze that made both men harder to see – but likely made it hard for them to see out, too.

Samantha leaned in a little. "You were going to tell me about Sebastian…"

"He and I got into a fight."

"He said as much in his letter."

"Well, another fight, I guess. It's an… old argument between us."

"I didn't realize you had any feud with him." She fiddled with the pages of her book, running her thumb over the edges.

"He seemed very different when I saw him in Kirkwall, but he…" Corbinian glanced at their parents. "He actually wanted me to join him in the Chantry. He called me a sinner and a…" He clenched his jaw. "Let's just say that I found his accusations hypocritical."

She wanted to hold his hand, but instead kept her fingers firmly on her book. The edges of the pages were dipped in a golden dye to make the closed book shine, but it also made the thin leaves soft to the touch. It made the book look prettier, but the story hadn't changed. She wondered if that was like Sebastian. "He seemed quite remorseful in his letter to me."

"I'm sure he did."

Lady's Pentaghast's voice softly cut through the room. "No, no, no, no! Read it again! With _feeling_ this time!"

The pair looked over to Goran and Lady Pentaghast, the former in what could only be described as apparent agony, and the latter finishing another glass of brandy, for she had waved the tea away. Corbinian and Samantha smiled a little at the interruption.

"Lord Kendall should have apprenticed your brother," Samantha whispered.

"He's a lost cause, I'm afraid." But her smile got wider when he said: "But I am not. I have a feeling that your father is going to talk with me tonight."

"How do you know?"

"Because our mothers are more interested in our father's conversation than us."

Samantha spied her mother and the Duchess, who were no longer playing cards, but instead sitting wide-eyed and focused on the men. Even from the other side of their smoky haze, Samantha could see plainly that they were deep in conversation.

She huffed a quiet sigh. "Well, it's about time."

"I had hoped to drag out the moment as long as possible, I admit it."

"You just like climbing through my window."

"Getting your father's permission won't change that."

She twisted her mouth, trying to keep her smile from growing so big that everyone would see it and, after a moment fighting to hide her mirth, she leaned back over. "Does your aunt really have a statue of your likeness at her estate?"

"Oh, yeah," he groaned. "She keeps it in the room with all the other statues of all the other Vaels, which I have to say, is somewhat disturbing. We're all painfully white."

She pressed her lips together to keep a laugh from escaping, and kept her eyes on her book. "I missed you, Beenie."

"Well, I must have missed you, too, because I've arranged a visit to the Circle – don't smile too big now."

"How did you manage that?" She glanced at her parents.

"I'm a Vael." He said as though it should have been obvious, but then added: "Also, I bribed the guards."

Her eyes widened, because something about the ease with which they could get in was bothersome. "How wonderfully lax Circle security is. I wonder if we might bribe our way into the Grand Cleric's bedchambers next? I have an eye on that snazzy robe she always wears."

"I could just have a copy made for you. Maybe you could wear it and I could wear the First Enchanter's robe and then we could turn off all the lights—" She gave him a good jab in his ribs with her elbow and he _oofed_ softly. "Okay, noted. Grand Cleric / First Enchanter roleplay a little too risqué…"

Samantha giggled a little too loudly at that, and when her father looked over, it took everything she had to stop laughing and refocus on her book.

When she had calmed down enough, he leaned over. "Don't worry, Sammie. You'll be safe, because I'll go with you."

"Oh, right. I forgot how important you are."

"Clearly." He smirked and she relaxed a little.

It was true that things had been calm for a while and there hadn't been a rebellion in fifty years. Even then, it had been just one mage. The Starkhaven Circle treated mages better than most, and the First Enchanter kept his charges under control – everyone said so.

"When can we go?"

"In a few weeks."

"Lord Corbinian," Samantha's father called from the other side of the room, and Corbinian's father was standing next to him. They looked quite serious.

"And away we go," he whispered with a grin as he rose and calmly walked across the room.

It had been over four months since Corbinian's initial request for permission to court her, and Samantha had a sneaking suspicion that was the reason for Lady Pentaghast asking to dine with her. Samantha's mother was turning a curious shade of pink, probably flushed with excitement at the prospect of their connected families. Lady Mayweather had only breathlessly mentioned Corbinian's name nearly every day. She thought she heard her father mutter something which sounded like the word _inoffensive_ before the dinner, but his tone clearly suggested some prejudice, still. Still! It had been more than a year since Corbinian had returned from Nevarra.

Sitting on this small sofa, watching all the people in the room, Samantha couldn't help feeling like her life was being planned for her. Her mother was ready to consent to anyone with a title, her father was more concerned about her reputation than her actual happiness, and the Vaels, as pretentious as they were, were clearly concerned about her family's character. They had been carefully evaluating them at every turn; Samantha could see that even if her mother could not.

She turned to spy Goran suffering Lady Pentaghast's attentions as she finally selected a book for him and he traveled the length of the room to sit down next to Samantha on the sofa, holding his book distastefully, turning each page as though they were made of iron.

"Goran," she whispered a greeting and he didn't respond; he had terrible manners – everyone said so.

After a long pause, he looked up. "What?" He had the same Vael-blue eyes as his brother.

"Nothing," she answered defensively. "Just saying hello."

"Oh. Hello."

 _Andraste's breeches!_ Samantha silently wondered if this was how every conversation with Goran went. His puffy cheeks were a little flushed still, but his shoulders seemed to relax sitting next to her – or maybe it was just being away from Lady Pentaghast.

"What are you reading?" she whispered, figuring that she should try to get to know him. At least a little.

"Poetry," he said sourly. "What does this even mean? _She stalks the night. Filtered through the clouds and rounding out the outlines of my hands as I work in shadow._ "

Really? Could he be that dense? "It's the moon."

"What?" His favorite word.

"The _moon_ , silly. The night. Filtered through the clouds. Round and shadows? The moon."

He looked back down to the book. "I'd be better off painting her a picture of the moon."

"Only if her face is in the moon," Samantha said quickly.

"What?"

"Flora likes… portraits…" Samantha bit her lip; should she not tell Goran any of Flora's likes or dislikes? Would Flora be upset with her if she did?

Certainly Flora had suggested on numerous occasions how much she disliked Goran's attention, but if Helena and Vincent were to be believed, perhaps she just didn't know him. Samantha supposed it mattered little; if Flora was going to spurn him, nothing he did would make any difference.

"Portraits?"

She couldn't leave Goran's questions hanging in the air like Lord Kendall's always were.

"That's why I said that… about the face… in the moon. So the moon would be like a portrait. I didn't mean literally, of course. It was just a joke!" _Maker!_ Why was it so difficult to talk to Goran and so easy to talk to Corbinian?

Corbinian returned then, wearing a serious visage as he sat down on the other side of Samantha, turning a dark look to the other side of the room.

"What did he say?" Samantha asked him, looking in the same direction, and she noticed that Goran was interested in the answer as well.

"Not here…" he responded, but he gave her a lingering look before he lifted his book back up to his eyes.

"Oh, Goran!" Lady Pentaghast called over. "Have you finished that one yet?"

"Andraste's ass…" Goran muttered, standing up and sulking back over to his aunt.

Samantha's father moved towards her mother and they both stood up – it was getting dark out and she recognized their farewells.

"Go to your window at dusk," Corbinian whispered into her ear as her father called her over. With a slight nod, she rose from the velvet sofa and curtsied her goodbye. Corbinian kissed her hand, Goran bowed elegantly, Lady Pentghast embraced her like a daughter, and the Duke and Duchess of Starkhaven bowed deeply in formality to say goodnight.

Her family walked home in silence, the whoosh of the night winds ushering the Mayweathers along their way.

Once back inside the confines of her estate, her mother and father parted, going in separate directions as was their wont; her mother to the kitchen to tell the staff what she expected for breakfast, and her father to the study, likely to have a drink in private. He did that often.

Samantha ascended the stairs in darkness. The candelabras had burned low and the servants hadn't renewed them. After her bath, she donned her dressing gown and let the servants escort her to her room, helping her to dry her hair. Some little elf came in and hastily lit a fire in her hearth which helped considerably with the chill in the air. She settled down by her window, a shawl over her shoulders as she waited for Corbinian as he had promised to come. Just when she started to assume that Corbinian couldn't get away, her mother appeared in the hallway. Samantha met her at the door to her room.

"Darling Samantha." Her mother grasped at her hands, and she looked a little upset.

It was at that moment that she finally heard the tell-tale tapping noises at her window. He was tossing up pebbles to hit the thick glass. Samantha couldn't tell who had worse timing, Corbinian or her mother.

"Yes, mother?" she asked sweetly, trying to act like nothing was amiss.

 _Tap_.

"You behaved well this evening, my love," her mother said, tucking Samantha's hair behind her ear.

 _Tap_. It sounded almost like raindrops, but the sky had been clear enough to see all of the Maker's stars that night.

Samantha tried not to appear nervous. "Thank you, mother." She rubbed her neck, discreetly pulling her hair back out from behind her ear. She always hated it when her mother preened her.

"Best get a good night's rest, darling. Your father will want to speak to you tomorrow."

"Is everything all right, mother?"

 _Tap_.

Finally, her mother's attention drifted to the window. "Oh, dear. I hope that's not rain. The gardener just watered the grounds."

"I'm sure it's just a light sprinkle," Samantha laughed nervously.

"We'll talk tomorrow," her mother said lovingly, and then she did something she never did - she hugged Samantha! It was awkward; her mother's bird-like limbs pulled Samantha to her boney frame. She grasped her for but a moment before releasing her daughter and without ceremony, sailed back down the hallway. Samantha had been so surprised at the gesture, that she hadn't even hugged her back.

Whatever her father was going to talk to her about the next day likely had to do with Corbinian, who was no longer tossing pebbles up to her window. She fumbled for the latch on her door before dashing across her room to the window. Holding her dressing gown closed at her knees so it wouldn't get caught by the wind, set her knee on the sill and pushed her large bedroom window open. The hinges grated loudly enough to cause Corbinian to stop and turn back around – he had made to leave! He was a few feet from the fence where he had snuck in. It was easy enough to do if you knew the estate. Just under the hedges was a gap in the fencing and one could easily slip through without even ruffling clothing. Flora and Ruxton had rigged it years ago when Samantha and Innley had been the only ones left out of her all her friends who were not allowed outside after tea. That had taken a year longer than everyone else, and Samantha always assumed her mother had pressured her father into letting them have more freedom, mostly for appearances’ sake. Sometimes, she wondered if her father had a mind to keep her locked up for as long as possible – like the Circle locked up Innley – and all in the name of protection.

She leaned out and called his name. With a cursory glance to the other windows, he snuck closer.

"My mother was here," she said, but he lifted a hand to his ear; he couldn't hear her. "My mother!" She gestured behind her to indicate that someone had been in her room – at least, she hoped he understood what her feverish pointing meant.

He said something back, but Samantha couldn't hear him either.

"Beenie?" She called down. "Come up here." She tapped the tresses that held up the vines.

His gaze darted over the tresses for a moment and, though there was a chill in the air, he hastily shrugged off his overcoat, letting it fall to the grass. He climbed adeptly, for he had visited her in this manner enough times to be an old hand at this; besides, his arms and legs were strong from practicing with the sword and they carried him up like it was nothing. When he reached the top, he swung a leg over the sill, careful not to make too much noise, and sat down. She sat across from him, their knees touching, their bodies framing the window.

"I will never tire of this, I think. Coming through your window is the highlight of my week." He was trying to make a joke, but he couldn’t hide the look in his eyes. Surveying her room from the window, his expression was somewhere between distracted and disappointed.

"What did he say?" Samantha asked about his conversation with their fathers.

"Your father thinks that I'm doing quite well to change the perception of my character."

That sounded like a bad thing. "But..."

"But your father's opinion of me is not based upon such things. Regardless of the opinion of the Duke or even the Prince," Corbinian told her sadly. "Usually, I can get away with a fair amount simply because of my family, but your father has made a demand of me before he will grant me… before he will allow us to be tied to each other."

His choice of words was intriguing, and Samantha didn't know what to ask first but settled on: "What does he want?"

"He says that I must prove to him that I am a gentleman with honorable intentions and a good reputation." Corbinian sounded like he was quoting her father. "The latter seems to be of greatest concern."

The fact that he had climbed the side of her house to sneak into her room through a window made Samantha almost laugh at all three requirements but for the disappointment in his eyes. "He still hasn't forgotten the night I hurt my ankle, you mean. The night Sebastian was sent away."

"The night I was found by the city guard passed out on Lord Garrity's steps." He couldn't help but chuckle at that. "I suppose that wasn't my finest hour."

"I blame Lord Kendall."

He smiled so wide, she thought his face might crack open.

"What did your father say?"

Corbinian's smile faded to a knowing grin. "He said he has never known a Vael with a greater ability to win people over."

She reached for his hand. "You will, you know. Prove yourself to my father—I mean, if that's what you want to do."

"My Sammie." He turned her hands over in his, lifting his Vael eyes to hers. "I would remove the Black City from the Fade if that's what your father demanded."

She had no answer to that, for it was by far the most romantic thing he had ever said to her… the most romantic thing anyone had ever said to her. The most romantic thing she had ever heard, and between her and Flora, they had heard nearly everything that every boy in Starkhaven had ever said to every girl.

"This is very storybook of us," he said quietly, looking down at the grass far below. "What will the bards say when they tell our story?"

"I hear they sing, Beenie."

"Well, whatever," he said as he reached for her, pulling their bodies together on the threshold of her window and firmly pressing his lips to hers. Samantha closed her eyes.

His left hand, his sword hand, was more callused than his right; she felt his palm scratch against her jaw. The cool breeze of the evening swept through her window, a stark contrast to the heat between them, and it ruffled her lace dress and his silk shirt. She didn't want him to pull away when he did, and she both delighted and lamented the windowsill, imagining the many breezy nights to come where he would sneak through her window because her father refused him on this night.

He ran a hand over the top of her hair and smiled. "I've always wondered what it would be like to do something this poetic. Though, I wonder what Lord Kendall would say."

She lifted her chin. "He'd likely challenge you to a duel for my heart."

"However many it takes."


	8. 9:26 Dragon, Spring

**9:26 Dragon, Spring**

"Only one person witnessed Maferath's betrayal: Havard the Aegis," Francesca began. "Havard was a childhood friend of Maferath, and he accompanied his chief to the meeting with the Tevinters, not realizing what was planned."

This was the story of Andraste's death. Samantha had heard it a million times. When Samantha had asked Corbinian how they were going to visit the Circle Tower without being seen, he had only given her a wink and a smile. Paying off a secretary to withhold their names from the guest registry was easy enough, but getting into the Tower, passing through the layers of Templars and servants – all of whom would undoubtedly recognize the Marquess of Starkhaven – would be another matter. Before she could even concern herself with that, the pair had to first escape her parents’ watchful gaze.

The plan was to sneak away after service while the rest of the nobles were on their walk. It was something Samantha was greatly anticipating just as soon as the Grand Cleric finished speaking.

"When he understood that Maferath was giving Andraste over to be executed, Havard, unwilling to draw swords against his friend and liege, placed himself between Andraste and the Tevinter soldiers." Francesca paused solemnly before continuing. "The Tevinters struck him down, and Maferath left his boyhood friend for dead."

Corbinian whispered beside her. "Whatever happened to the whole idea of brothers before harlots?"

"Andraste is the harlot, I assume?" Samantha asked him.

"She did cheat on her husband."

Samantha bit her cheek to keep from giggling. "With the Maker!"

"And let that be a lesson to all," he said, fighting his own mirth.

Unaware of the blasphemy a few rows away, Francesca continued solemnly: "Gravely wounded, Havard made his way to the gates of Minrathous to stop the execution. But when he reached it, the terrible deed was already done, the armies on the plains long since dispersed. Havard, cursing his weakness, gathered the earthly remains of Andraste that had been left to the wind and rain, and wept. When his fingers touched the pile of ash, his ears filled with song, and he saw before him a vision of Andraste, dressed in cloth made of starlight.

"She knelt at his side, and said to him, _The Maker shall never forget you so long as I remember_."

Francesca removed her spectacles, placing them gently on the podium. "What did Andraste mean by that?"

The congregation sat silent, waiting for the answer.

"When Maferath was consumed by his envy for the love his bride felt for our Maker, his heart spoiled and turned black. And in that moment, his soul was damaged. When the soul is damaged, a demon need only but whisper to be heard."

Samantha knew where this was going. She felt she had outgrown these kinds of stories, no matter how well the Grand Cleric told them, but one glance around her suggested that the rest of the nobles of Starkhaven were still in their youth.

"Was Maferath possessed? We cannot know the answer. But we do know that demons are not people." Francesca let that point hang in the air for a moment before she continued. "They do not have feelings, nor do they have the capacity to think beyond themselves. Demons lie. They will use whatever they can to get a foothold in a mortal being. They will befriend, they will make promises, and they will make you think that you are in control – _but it's a lie_. Once you counsel with demons, you have turned from the Maker. Your soul is forever stained. Your life is no longer yours; it is theirs. This is the reason why we have the Rite of Tranquility. Because there is no cure for possession."

"Except death," Samantha whispered and Corbinian quirked a grin.

"We never know when demons will come to us. Often, it will be at our most vulnerable, when darkness has fallen all around us. When we allow ourselves to be consumed by hated, fear, or jealousy. Like Maferath. But we, each of us, have the power inside ourselves to say no to a demon's offer. To reject them. Was Maferath possessed?" Francesca repeated the question only to wave it away with a flick of her wrist. "It doesn't matter. All that matters is that he turned from the Maker."

Samantha whispered to Corbinian, "Demons are never very clever in the stories."

"The stories aren't told by the demons," he answered smartly.

"And Andraste knew," Francesca said importantly. "She knew what Maferath would do. But she also knew that if she did not turn from the Maker, then in death, she would be by His side for all eternity. And if she remembers us, if we are _worth_ remembering, then she will tell the Maker about us, and He shall know us, too."

The choir then stood up and their voices started low, rising softly into the dusty Chantry air tinted by the stained-glass.

"And yet, she didn't warn Havard," Samantha spoke just above the chorus.

"Poor sod." Corbinian agreed as they rose to join the singing.

A loud clap echoed through the singing and all heads turned down the pew to the poor lad who had clumsily dropped his copy of the Chant of Light: it was Goran Vael, of course. He fumbled twice picking it up, and there was a sheen of perspiration just above his brow.

Samantha leaned into Corbinian's arm. "What's with him?"

"The answer to that question is standing across the row."

Samantha followed Corbinian's suggestion, and sure enough, standing across the row with her parents and her brothers, Ruxton and the newly married Brett and his wife, was the tall and slender Flora Harimann, shaking her head disapprovingly at Goran's folly. When she spotted Samantha spying her, Flora rolled her eyes at the youngest Vael – well, second youngest, as the future prince of Starkhaven's wife, the future princess of Starkhaven, had given birth to a baby boy only a few weeks earlier.

At the conclusion of service, Flora sauntered over to Samantha and Corbinian with a smile. "When will Francesca _ever_ stop talking about demons?"

"Don't be silly, Flora," Samantha joked, taking Corbinian's arm. "What else is she going to talk about?"

"A fair point. I suppose they'd replace her if she ever stopped."

"Right. And then we'd have to listen to all the same warnings and parables all over again from the new Grand Cleric."

"Ugh." Flora's gaze drifted to Corbinian who had stayed curiously silent during the exchange. He just grinned at her. "What are you smiling about?"

"You look lovely, Flora." Corbinian gave her his best charming smile. "Doesn't she, Goran?"

Corbinian turned his head, stepping back to reveal his younger brother who had joined them stealthily. But for all his efforts at grace, Goran was a right mess; he blinked feverishly, trying to speak, but only producing mumbles. "Erm, hi."

"Hello, Goran!" Samantha greeted him cheerfully.

Flora sighed, a bit too loudly for prudence.

Corbinian's smile was wide. "Surely you remember my brother, Flora?"

Flora gave an unenthusiastic curtsey. "My lord."

"My Lady." He tried to bow, but he was too stiff. "Are you w-well?"

"Fine," she intoned. "Oh, I see my brother needs me. Excuse me."

Goran visibly deflated as she hurried away, his gaze lingering on the space she had occupied. It was painful to watch. His words had muffled together with every twitch of his hands and blink of his eyes, and Samantha could see his puffy cheeks turning rosy.

"Buck up, Goran," Corbinian clapped him on the shoulder. "At least you got out a coherent sentence that time!"

"Maker, what is wrong with me?"

"It's called stupidity. If you were smart, you'd forget about that one."

The younger brother blew through his lips. "Yeah, yeah…"

Corbinian gave him a warm smile as he led Samantha down the aisle to the wide double-doors of the Chantry. They were held open by initiates who were offering the Maker's benediction for anyone who wished to receive it.

Granite Circle greeted them with bright green crispness. The dogwood trees were blooming white and pink, some lazily releasing their soft petals onto the cool stone path. The air smelled of sweets as the sun burned off what was left of the morning dew, and Samantha brought her shawl up around her shoulders to keep the slight chill away. They walked for a few minutes in the spring sunshine, smiling and nodding to those they knew. Lady Fortney stopped to compliment Samantha on her necklace; a gift for her twelfth name day, it was a thick silver chain with four inlaid emeralds. Innley had always loved it – green rocks that sparkled in the light. She had worn it on this day for him.

"Cover for me?" Corbinian asked his brother.

Goran sighed. "Don't I always?"

Corbinian gave him a genuine smile, and when Goran smiled back – the first time Samantha had ever seen him smile — she lost her breath for a moment. His entire face changed when he smiled. Underneath those puffy cheeks and grim visage was a youthful and beautiful boy, and Samantha wondered what this pudgy boy would look like as a man. Before her thoughts got away from her, he bade them farewell, ambushed by Vincent Tyler and Helena Luxley as he wandered away.

"Around the next corner," Corbinian said casually, gesturing ahead to the pair of high hedges that served as entrance to Vayan's Park, so named for Starkhaven's most green-thumbed prince, who had doubled the size of the royal gardens.

Samantha was nearly giddy at the anticipation of seeing her brother, but tried to act as naturally as she could. They paused at the entrance to the park, and then slipped through the tall shapely shrubs. Corbinian picked up the pace, and they cut through Lord Garrity's front garden to reach Starkhaven Park. The same park which held memories of Sebastian and a certain drunken encounter. Once they reached the statue of Corin the Grey Warden, they cut through the high hedges onto the adjacent street, traveled past the High Merchant's Guild, cut through Champion's Circle, around the corner from the Templar's building, and finally to main gates of the Starkhaven Circle.

Samantha had only passed by the Circle on the heels of her parents before, and never been inside. She was intimidated by the marvelous wrought iron gates designed in the style of the previous age, even though everyone thought them terribly outdated, and stared at the Circle's delicately carved hedge garden, filled with topiaries sculpted like animals. Finally, they moved past the circular outer wall of the tower to the West Entrance, where the vine canopy was as long as the tower was tall.

The entrance was supposed to be guarded by one Templar. But there were two.

Templars of any stature were well known to the noble men and women of Starkhaven, but Samantha knew only what Corbinian knew about these two, which was that he had struck a deal with Ser Langley, the black-haired recruit who was leaning on the hilt of a massive sword, its blade as black as pitch.

Ser Langley had grown up in Markham, a smaller fishing town to the east, thus possessing a dark complexion, dark eyes, and dark hair. His mother had passed away from a sickness when he was a boy and since his father was a sailor, he couldn't care for him and had sent the boy to the Chantry. He’d joined the Order in Kirkwall, and spent a few years as a recruit there before requesting a transfer to Starkhaven. _Too many maleficarum_ , he had said.

The other Templar, who had hair and eyes of the same tawny color, was not known to either of them.

"Well, well. All dressed up for the mages, are we?" Langley's biting tone suggested that he didn't like his charges.

"They need role models." Corbinian greeted the Templar with a bow.

"Oh, they're quite fashionable. What with the lightning shooting out of their eyes."

"Then perhaps they have caught onto the current trends," Corbinain responded and they all shared a chuckle.

Samantha caught a bronze plaque affixed to the white stone Tower wall behind Langley. It read: _Time inevitably brings an end to all things in the material world, and yet in this ending is the seed of a beginning._

"Ser Traven." Langley gestured to the other Templar. "I present the Marquess of Starkhaven."

Ser Traven's yellow-blond hair and crystal clear eyes were plainly Ander, and upon his back he wore an enormous dual-edged and rounded battleaxe with Starkhaven's symbol etched in the center bolt. Samantha didn't know much about the hierarchy of the Templar Order, but his armor and the color of his underpadding suggested that he was at least of higher rank than a recruit.

The superior-ranking Templar bowed as he eyed Corbinian and Samantha sternly. "I understand why you have come. Though Ser Langley was going to escort you inside, he doesn't have access to that part of the Tower. So, he brought this matter to me. I have already gone on record that I don't approve of this." Those blond eyes drifted to Samantha. "And because of the sensitive nature of your title, m'lady, your visit will go undocumented."

"What part of the Tower?" Samantha asked.

"The isolation chambers."

"I don't understand," Corbinian said. "He wasn't in any _isolation chamber_ a week ago. Has something happened?"

"You could say that," Langley remarked.

Traven shot Langley a disapproving look. "There was an incident."

Samantha's mouth dropped open to ask, but Corbinian spoke first. "There must be some mistake. We're here to see Innley Mayweather."

"Yes, that's the boy," Traven assured them. "But there is no cause to worry. I will go with you, and you will be safe—"

"Safe?" Samantha blurted out. "What has happened to my brother?"

Traven set his jaw, drawing a measured breath. "My lady, forgive me. Your brother is protected. But your safety while in this Tower is my responsibility."

She remembered her manners and apologized. "I'm sorry. I know…"

Corbinian covered her hand with his in an attempt at reassurance. It mostly worked. He turned back to Traven. "Is Innley all right?"

"We have him isolated. Normally, he would not be allowed visits but… Well, you are the Marquess…"

Samantha knew that the Chantry and the Vaels had close ties, but she had no idea that the royal family had this kind of access. Still, she felt there was something Ser Traven wasn't telling them.

"Let's go, then." Corbinian seemed eager enough, which made her nervous.

Langley smirked as he watched them go. "Don't feed the mages down there."

Traven shot a glare at him. "Bite your tongue, recruit. If you make a deal like this again, I'll have you stripped of your commission."

Ser Langley looked to his boots. "Yes, ser."

Stepping into the Tower was like walking into the night, and it took Samantha's eyes a few moments to adjust. There weren't many windows, if any, and only dim light came from those sconces and torches that lined the stone masonry walls. Pockets of shadow were everywhere.

When they passed through the library—filled with thick sky-blue rugs trimmed in greens and golds, table lamps of every color glass, and quills and parchments scratching noisily underneath the judgmental stares of the portraits—Samantha craned her neck upwards to see all the books. _Andraste's breath!_ There must have been thousands! The curved tower walls were lined in marble, and stretched up at least four stories with balconies that circled the sides. The longest ladders she had ever seen stretched into the darkness above, disappearing before the light of crystal chandeliers that hung from the painted ceiling – a painted ceiling! Not even Samantha's lavish estate had something so extravagant.

There was one thing missing, though: joy.

Langley certainly was right about the attention, but in every single one of the hundred pairs of eyes staring back, there was only forlorn resignation. Young, old, men, women, mages, Templars, initiates, all paused, sometimes in mid-step to stare at them as they passed. The women looked ashen and the men looked near death, their skins as pale as Fereldans and their hair limp as though doused from a bucket of oil. Mages with long hair and long beards stood around in heavy robes made of fine wool and silk, but their bodies worked laboriously to move, as if every twitch of their fingers took effort. The faces were barren, devoid of dreams, staring straight into her like they could see her better than she could see herself.

Samantha couldn't understand them. This was the Circle Tower, but the things that seemed out of place here were the mages.

Once through the library, they kept going, the curved stone wall always to her left and it felt like they were descending – was this place really designed in a cylinder or a spiral or something? – until they reached a level with few torches and a single small oil-lamp that sat solitarily on a desk that stood guard to a door.

"Is this it?" Corbinian asked.

"Almost." Ser Traven answered as he opened the door. "It's down here."

Yet another staircase that stretched down into darkness.

Samantha's anxiety increased. She had heard the Tranquil grew beasts down in the lower levels for the mages to study, sometimes spiders or giant rats, and had a sudden fear that they would run into the monsters. The words _isolation chambers_ rang in her head like the chantry bells, as though a reckoning was coming. With every step she took into the darkness holding onto Corbinian's hot arm, the knowledge she thought she had about the Circle turned to dust in the cobwebs.

Ser Traven opened another dark plain door to reveal a long hallway lined with more dark plain doors, a thick iron lock on each. They moved soundlessly down the hallway after him, their footsteps no longer echoing on the stones; the thick walls seemed to absorb all sound. Perhaps even sounds as loud as screaming. Nothing could be heard from the other side of the doors. It was like a tomb; a place where dead people lived.

Corbinian held her up with determination. "Maybe this was a bad idea…"

"No," Samantha said weakly. "I want to see Innley."

"Here." Ser Traven stopped in front of an unmarked door and unlocked it. "I'll be right here. Take as long as you want, but… not too long, okay?"

Samantha stared at the tiny sliver of the open door. With Corbinian's hand clasped firmly, she nodded, and the Marquess of Starkhaven opened the door.

If not for the surprise, she could have burst into tears right then, for her baby brother who was just a year younger looked older than her by a decade. His cheeks were sunken, his eyes were hollow, his lips were pale, and his hair was black and oily from dirt. The right side of his face, particularly his cheeks, nose, and forehead, were deep red, scraped and scabbed over with long gashes that covered his once-youthful and beautiful skin, right down to a stubbly beard. He was slumped in a corner because this cell had nothing else to sit upon. Just above Innley's head were shackles bolted to the wall, but the chains were missing.

Corbinian was rigid by her side, and though she couldn't tear her eyes away from the hollow shell of a boy in front of her, she could almost feel Corbinian's growing rage, a mirror to her despair.

"Innley?" She took a step closer but if her brother heard her, he made no movement. "Innley?"

Corbinian turned around to Ser Traven. "What is the meaning of this? This is barbaric!"

The Templar held up his hands. "Her brother is not harmed by Templars, I assure you. I can also assure you that he is kept here for his own safety."

" _Safety_?"

As Corbinian continued to interrogate Traven, Samantha lifted the hem of her dress and crouched down, unaware that every speck of dust was going to show regardless of what she did. Innley had a tuft of hair in his eyes and she wanted to brush it away but when her hand got within an inch, his hand darted up and gripped her wrist tight; she let out a small squeak at the surprise of it. Innley's hollow eyes, the same color as her own, shot up to her and for a moment there was blatant hostility.

She barely had time to be afraid, gasping: "Innley! It's me! Sammie!"

Her name did something, because he blinked once, twice, and then with a flutter he loosened his grip on her wrist, tears streaming down his face. It was horrible, the wretched sobs that wracked his already frail body, and he scrambled towards her, his bony limbs wrapping tight around her waist.

"What did they do to you?" She was crying, and felt Corbinian's hand on her shoulder; he had returned to her side, crouching down next to her.

Innley's voice was hoarse and deathly quiet. "This is what they do. This is how it's done."

"I don't understand!"

"How what is done?" Corbinian sounded young at that moment, no more than his true age of seventeen.

Innley pulled back, and he caught Samantha's necklace, the emeralds twinkling in the low light. He stared at them for a moment, his reaction delayed before he brought his hands to his head, crushing his eyes closed and twitching violently for a moment before continuing. " _Don't you_ _see_?"

"See what?" Samantha held her breath, but he didn't answer, instead balling his hands into fists and jerking them into his forehead hard. She reached for his hands again and that's when he stopped, his shoulders bobbed up and down in silent agony.

"There is no hope here," he whispered into the stone walls.

"Is this a… a demon?" Samantha stared at her brother.

Traven stood in the doorway, his voice filled with sorrow. "He doesn't know where he is. He doesn't know what's happening."

"There is nothing. There is nothing. There is nothing," Innley whispered over and over.

Tears continued to slide down Samantha's cheeks. "What does that mean?"

"You need to ask the Knight Commander these questions," Traven replied.

Corbinian stood up. "We're asking _you_. This is wrong. He doesn't belong here."

Innley turned away from Samantha, burying his face in the wall again, the dry cracked stone scraping his cheeks raw, opening up the wounds on his face, and still whispering, "There is nothing."

"I have no answers," Traven said plaintively. "The Knight Commander has plans for him – that much I know. But that's _all_ I know. He will be interested to know that he hugged his sister."

"You can't tell him we were here!" Corbinian seemed to lose his cool briefly. "Forgive me. I just mean, that was not part of the agreement. I didn't want anyone to know."

"I'm sorry, my lord." Traven appeared to mean it. "When Langley came to me, I had no choice but to tell the Knight Commander… but he approved your visit."

Samantha turned a set of wide eyes over her shoulder to the Templar. Innley's whimpers against the wall grew weaker.

Corbinian kept his calm. "He did what?"

"The Knight Commander wondered… what his reaction would be… Look, I'm sorry. I'm only doing what I was told to do." Ser Traven ran his palms over his eyes, and he sincerely looked angry, like he wanted to punch the wall. "This… I'm sorry. My Lady, you shouldn't have seen this… I'm going to tell the Knight Commander that this was a mistake."

Samantha turned back to her brother. He had quieted down as his body slumped back against the wall, his eyes glazed over, staring into nothing as the tears stopped falling. It was like he had fallen asleep with his eyes wide open.

Traven stepped aside, holding the door open wide. "It's time to go. He won't remember your visit. I'm sorry."

The Templar kept apologizing, and that made it worse. He was supposed to safeguard the mages, and yet he was powerless.

Like some kind of dream where she would walk but feel like she was flying, Corbinian held her afloat as they drifted back up through the spiraling tower, passed all those wall sconces, through the gleaming marble library, and back into the bright white world.

"Was it everything you hoped?" Langley sneered from the doorway, still leaning on his black sword.

"Shut up, Langley," Traven snapped before he walked them through the perfectly sculpted shrubs, to the wrought iron gates.

Samantha mind was awash with darkness, as though she were still inside that Tower, but it was Innley who was in distress. Everyone said the mages were treated well, but Innley was not being treated well. Remembering his stubbly beard, likely his first, made Samantha start to cry terribly, thinking of all the ways he was just a boy going through the changes of becoming a man, but alone in a prison cell and clearly abused. She thought of all the other doors with locks on them, and wondered how many other mages were behind how many other doors?

"What should I do?" Corbinian held Samantha close as he asked the Templar, "How do I get him out of there?"

Traven shook his head apologetically. "You don't."


	9. 9:26 Dragon, Autumn

**9:26 Dragon, Autumn**

The Starkhaven Circle Tower wasn't black like so many other Circle Towers around Thedas; it was white and gold. Built of white stone and decorated with marble and copper, its pristine walls stretched higher than any building in Starkhaven. From its peak, a great white spire shot upwards with pride. Sometimes at night, Samantha could see beams of light shine out from that spire.

A plaque, old letters etched in bronze, was affixed to each of the four gates, but Samantha had only seen the one behind Ser Langley's head – a note about how an ending was also a beginning. Just like a Circle, she thought.

From her perch in Innley's window, the Circle Tower looked as majestic as the Chantry, but without any windows it more closely resembled a giant white tomb. Like those Corbinian had described in Nevarra, it was beautiful, immaculate, and decorated lavishly without thought to expense. Except this one housed living people. Even if they had seemed as hollow as corpses.

Innley's room had been stripped of all of his things and replaced with new things. Pretty things. His bed was now a rose-colored sofa, his favorite paintings were now woven tapestries and stone carvings, the trunk which had held his clothes from when he was an infant was now a harp, and his stick collection had become a casualty of redecoration. Innley had been obsessed with sticks when he was a small boy, and it had driven their mother mad. Every day he would walk through the door, covered in dirt and holding a new stick for his mother to take away. Yet even so, he managed to collect more than a dozen of every twisted shape. Her parents had steamed at the collection's reveal, staring at the stashed-away secrets with revelation, as though the hidden sticks had been the truth about Innley.

It didn't really matter if she sat in his room or not, because her brother's shadow hung over everything. Over the missing chair at the dining room table, over the downstairs study where he would practice his letters, and over the picture of flowers on the hallway wall where his portrait had once been. Like the horrible stain that he had left on the family could simply be blotted out with pretty drawings.

The swelling anger over the unfairness in all things birthed feelings of sedition, plots of vengeance and escape – but to where? And to what? What did she know about life outside the walls of her home? Eventually, the truth about Samantha became her inaction, for what could a noble's daughter of no importance, title, or wealth do against the might of the Circle? Such thoughts did not leave easily, and Innley's circumstance dominated her body with an abundance of emotion.

Her maid appeared in the doorway, and she had the decency to look apologetic. Ruxton Harimann's name day party was that evening and Samantha wasn't dressed; not surprisingly, she wasn't in the celebrating mood. Even though it had been almost half a year since she had seen Innley, she knew he was still in that cell. _Isolation chamber_ , she thought snidely. She knew what it really was.

She dragged herself from Innley's window, and padded down the hallway to her room, glowering at the painting of flowers that used to be her brother.

Ruxton's favorite color was blue, and he had invited everyone to wear it on this day. Themes and colors were not unusual for parties, but it was unusual for Ruxton to have a party. If it were up to him, as he told Samantha, he would never have chosen such an elaborate celebration, but the Lord and Lady Harimann had chosen his sixteenth name day to grant their son one of their smaller estates in Cumberland, a coastal city to the southwest, near Orlais. As such, he would be given the title of minor Lord, which was good enough to reason to celebrate as any.

Her maid had laid out her dress for the evening, a light blue gown made of silk and lace with a trail of dark blue ribbons that cascaded down the length of the skirt. More ribbons for her hair and the sleeves, with silver and blue jewelry to match. Her lack of enthusiasm had to be noticeable, but the maid went about her routine with the patience that only a servant could endure.

When her mother came in to see to her final touches, she didn't say a thing about her daughter's disposition. Sometimes, Samantha thought that she was hiding it really well, until she would glimpse her reflection in a mirror or a window and see a sad girl moping. Why did her parents never say anything? Did they not see it? Did they not care? She caught herself staring at them sometimes, after dinner or during service. They spoke casually, their eyes focused on the space in front of them but on nothing in particular. Did they see the world? Did they see themselves?

"Darling, you look lovely! Corbinian will adore this color," her mother gushed. Sometimes, she sounded as though she were acting a part. Like being excited about her daughter's beau was something she was supposed to be excited about, and so she was. Like that was the truth about her.

"Thank you, Mother," she replied flatly.

"Let me fix your ribbons." She spoke to her daughter without looking at her. "Now, I know you like him, but make sure he knows that, too. A man needs prodding. A little attention goes a long way to encourage affection."

"Yes, Mother." If her mother only knew at how much attention she had given Corbinian. Especially in the barn. Or the Chantry's shadows. Or behind the garden's hedges. Or the portrait room in the royal palace. Or most especially, on the windowsill to her own bedroom.

Lady Mayweather stepped back and admired her work, and Samantha stood like a seamstress's doll, having no care whether she lived up to her mother's expectations or not. Finally satisfied, her mother announced: "Perfection."

The rain was just beginning to fall when they arrived under the awning of the Harimann Estate. A handsome boy answered the door's call, wearing a sharp white suit with white gloves and shoes. He bowed grandly, taking their coats and leading them into the grand entryway. Some younger boy who was standing stiffly just inside the door and holding a thick stick, lifted it and brought it down onto the wooden flooring with a loud knock.

The handsome boy in white bellowed out for the whole room to hear: "The Lord and Lady Mayweather, and their daughter, Miss Samantha!"

Conversations paused, heads turned. Samantha and her mother gave a curtsey while her father bowed, and then the world around them moved again. A sea of blue, alive and writhing.

"Sammie!" Arianna's luxurious accent drifted her way. She and Flora were both dressed to the blue nines.

"Hello, Ari. Flora." As they looked back, their eyes twinkling under the bright candlelight and chandeliers, Samantha held their hands and was grateful for friends.

"Ari bet me that I couldn't get Benji to blush. I aim to prove her wrong." Flora grinned deviously.

Arianna bounced up and town on her toes. "We'll see…!"

Samantha cracked a smile. Getting Benjamin to blush would require a whore's depravity and a rogue's wit. "Did I miss anything?"

"Just Lady Preston mooning over the floral arrangements. And the Vaels aren't here yet," Flora informed her. She lowered her voice a bit when she asked: "Any word…?" She was asking about Innley, because Samantha had told her, of course.

"No." Samantha glanced back to her parents. "Nothing."

"Beenie will get him out. He's a Vael." Flora sounded so confident, but Samantha hadn't told her how both she and Corbinian had given up on that notion.

Though Traven had warned him that there was nothing he could do, Corbinian had still tried to throw his name around in effort to change Innley's situation, but all his efforts proved fruitless. The important people who could do anything were unavailable, as important people often were. The Knight Commander was an utter stranger to them both, for it was impossible to gain audience even with his assistant. They tried speaking to the Grand Cleric, but couldn't be very forthcoming with information lest their secret trip to the Tower let out, and the First Enchanter was not a talkative man. The one time they had met him in the Chantry at service, he had spoken fewer words than Samantha thought possible to carry on a conversation.

There wasn't much else Corbinian could do with his name without drawing suspicion from his parents, or worse, the Prince of Starkhaven. He was as good and just as any other prince, but Corbinian didn't want to draw his ire for a second time. He had learned the first time around that when the prince's gaze fell upon you, it better be for honor.

Ruxton approached the pair, swaying with drink, followed by Helena Luxley and Vincent Tyler who both looked beleaguered by chasing around their drunken friend.

"You look beautiful, Sammie," Ruxton announced happily.

"Thank you, Ruxty. May the Maker bless you with good fortune!" She gave him a genuine smile with the standard name-day wish. She didn't get to see Ruxton much anymore. The Harimanns had decided he needed to break from his shell. They had hired a riding instructor, a swordarm, a languages teacher, two private tutors, and given him a squire, whom, as Samantha heard it, Ruxton used mostly to smuggle booze.

"Won't you take a turn about the room—" He paused a moment, refocusing his eyes. "—with me?"

Samantha smiled wide, trying not to laugh.

Vincent laughed tiredly. "I think you'd best sit down."

"What? I feel fine—"

A loud knock made Ruxton nearly jump out of his breeches. Even with the music and the chatter, the _thunk_ echoed throughout the hallway and all heads turned to the handsome boy in white who announced, "The Lord and Lady Fortney and their daughter, Miss Gwendolyn, and son, Robaire!"

Most paused, some even held their breath. With a heart-shaped face, and the longest eyelashes of anyone in Granite Circle, eleven-year-old Robaire turned the heads of all the younger daughters of Starkhaven whenever he arrived. It also helped that his family had the most wealth next to the Vaels. Gwendolyn, still as willowy as an elf, was the inheritor of the Fortney Estate because she was the eldest, just like Flora and Samantha. But she was a sickly girl, weak of heart and stamina, and most assumed that she would sign over all family holdings to her younger brother once he came of age. Because of this, every noblewoman of lower rank was eager to match him with their daughter, but the frontrunner for that lottery was Lady Kendall, the daughter of Lord Kendall, who had an eye to match her daughter Tyne, who was just eight.

"Maker!" Samantha turned to look at the boy with the stick. "What's with the knocking?"

Flora rolled her eyes. "My mother thinks that Orlesian customs make her more important."

"They do that in Orlais?"

"Who knows?" she droned. "The important thing is that _she_ thinks so."

Samantha looked at Lady Harimann across the room. She was wearing a blue-tinted fur shawl; she must have had it dyed for this very occasion. "I think I would go mad if I had to live around that all that racket."

"Oh, they're mad already, but thankfully it's just for this night." Flora took a long drink from her glass, savoring the fizzy liquid. "But it was the Fortneys, so they deserved a knock."

"We're debating who deserves a knock and who doesn't?" Samantha asked.

"Of course!" Ruxton lifted his glass and nearly dropped it.

Another knock against the floor made Samantha jump – who in Orlais came up with this?

"The duke and duchess of Starkhaven, and their sons, Marquess Corbinian and Lord Goran!"

The pause for this group was a bit longer as everyone in the room curtsied and bowed in return. When conversations started back up again, most of them involved complimenting the princess's shimmering satin gown, which had a train so long that Samantha was certain someone would step on it, and then Princess Vael would fall face-first into the Harimanns' plush sea-green rug.

Flora pointed a tipsy finger in the Vaels’ direction. "Now _they_ deserve a knock."

Everyone agreed.

Ruxton laughed merrily. "I should go outside and come back in to get another!"

"A fine idea, Ruxty!" Flora announced, nudging him. "Off you go. Go on."

Arianna giggled madly, Vincent seemed glad to be rid of the Ruxton-watching duties, but Helena looked somewhat concerned as they watched the young and very drunk Lord Ruxton wander off.

"That's not very nice."

Flora sighed dramatically. "Oh, lighten up, Helena."

Samantha wasn't really listening to them anymore. Like one of those dreams where the world turned fuzzy except for one singular person who remained crystal clear, she had seen Corbinian. He and Goran were dressed nearly identical in navy blue vests with lighter-blue embroidery, a high collar, and crisp sky-blue shirts.

"Oh, Sammie. He's so handsome." Arianna purred into her ear. "What's he like?"

"Ari, you know Beenie…"

"Benji told me what he wrote in that letter… I bet he's an adventurous lover. Full of spirit! With a firm grip, yes?"

Samantha was about to quip something about a left-handed grip, but Helena spoke before her. "A lady never tells."

"Ladies! There are no _ladies_ here, Elena!" Arianna always dropped the H.

Helena huffed in response, and Flora gently touched her arm. "Do be careful, Ari! Ladies like our friend here are not dissimilar to flowers. If you brush up against them wrongly, they will wilt right in front of you!"

Helena yanked her arm away and Flora giggled into her glass, but a deep voice answered from behind them. "Her Grace, Grand Cleric Francesca, is a lady."

Samantha whirled around to see Corbinian. His blue eyes matched the embroidery on his vest, and while he tried to mask it, they were clouded with concern. Was it for Innley? Was it for her? It ceased to matter when he took her hand.

"But Francesca is not _here_ ," Arianna declared.

"Yes, she is." He gestured over her shoulder, and the Antivan girl twirled around to see the Grand Cleric herself, granting a name-day blessing to the young Ruxton Harimann, who swayed under her gentle hand. He had apparently wandered in wrong direction.

Thankfully, the Lord and Lady Harimann didn't notice as they were busy with their obsequious courtesies to the Duke and Duchess of Starkhaven.

"Pfeh." Arianna scoffed. "Any woman who still has her maidenhood doesn't count."

Samantha quickly lifted her glass to her lips, drinking deep, and Corbinian squeezed her hand. Flora caught it too and, perhaps wanting to spare her friend the embarrassment of answering any more questions, clinked her glass against Arianna's.

"Benjamin might blush in front of Francesca…" And before Arianna could dispute that, Flora turned about, her long hair fanning across her back as she sauntered towards her prey. Arianna chased after her, and the skirt of her dress flowed out spectacularly as she bounced up and down in Flora's wake.

"She is so…" Helena paused before she huffed out in apparent shock.

"Who? Ari?" Corbinian looked over the heads of everyone across the room. "What's not to like?"

Vincent shook his head. "Her father is quite lax with her manners…"

Even though Arianna would likely think the accusation hilarious, and Samantha normally would never raise her voice at a party, she suddenly felt the need to defend her Antivan friend. "Arianna is a kind girl, full of life and happiness. If we could all be as lucky to live so free."

Vincent turned a funny expression to her. "You live in more luxury than most, Sammie. You want for nothing, are nearly engaged to royalty, and you wish to educate us on luck?"

"We have all suffered misfortunes, Vin, or have you forgotten about Innley?" She spoke so quickly, forgetting about those topics which were permissible and those that were not that she thought he would admonish her right then and there, but it was Helena who surprised her. The girl's eyes snapped to her so fast that, if they had been arrows, Samantha would have been dead.

Vincent scowled. "Your brother is a mage who lied about it for years! Imagine what would have happened if a demon possessed him while at a social gathering! Important people could have died!"

Corbinian slid his arm around Samantha's waist in a show of confidence. "Now, now, Vin. Lest we forget whose arm you hold, I wouldn't say too many poor things about the boy who made your match possible."

Vincent's mouth dropped open with incredulity, but Helena's eyes widened nervously.

"Perhaps we should part company," the young girl said.

"Yes." Vincent offered a stiff bow. "Good night, Your Excellency. Miss Samantha."

Helena seemed delayed in her curtsy, glancing back over her shoulder as Vincent escorted her away.

Corbinian snickered. "How kind of him to remember our titles."

"Did you see that?" She asked him.

"I saw him make an ass of himself."

"No. Helena. She looked at me funny when I mentioned Innley."

"Maybe she's curious about him. Your mother and hers were encouraging them, I heard. I'm sure they thought it was a great misfortune that he was sent away."

"Misfortune for _us_ ," Samantha muttered bitterly.

"Well, they are rather repressed."

She had to give him that; the Luxleys were exceedingly conservative, not just in their politics but in their engagements as well. Lord and Lady Luxley were standing in the next room near a suit of arms, probably admiring its stiffness.

Corbinian wrinkled his brow. "How exactly were they going to match them, again?"

"Hand-holding and meaningful stares across chantry pews," she grumbled.

"Ahh, so just like us, then!"

She brought forth a small smile. "Exactly, but I imagine it's the promise of nudity that retains our friendship."

"Ahh, yes! Of course. I did promise to disrobe for you, didn't I? How fortunate for us both that you remembered!"

Samantha suppressed a giggle; she couldn't stay so heartbroken around Corbinian for long.

"Poor Vincent,” He said, shaking his head. “Stuck with a prude. If she had half your daring, maybe she could break from that crusty old house and find herself a life."

"Perhaps we should ask Lord Kendall's advice, since he's here and all."

"A fine idea." Corbinian looked up, finding the hunched old man seated against the wall, nipping at a glass of brown liquor, his earhorn firmly in hand but laid by his knee.

They moved across the room, turning their shoulders to squeeze between people and furniture. Once they were at Lord Kendall's side, he attempted to get up, but Corbinian held up a hand so he wouldn't. The man was old; his weathered skin was splotchy and thin, and they could see the faint blue veins streaming in his hands as brought his earhorn to his ear.

"Tell me, Lord Kendall!" Corbinian yelled above the hum of the room. "How would you advise Helena Luxley in the ways of love?"

Lord Kendall blinked. " _What_?"

"Indeed! It's a mystery to us as well! Thank you, sir!"

Lord Kendall smiled confusedly, nodding his head like the dim often did, trying to pass for having understood. Samantha supposed it was easier that way. As they moved away through the crowded front room, another knock jolted Samantha into a neighboring servant who responded to her clumsiness with veneration.

"The Lord and Lady Dufour, and their son, Lord Paavo, and daughter, Lady Taru!"

Samantha had just about enough of the knocking. Looking at all the people in the room, and imagining that there had been a knock for each family, she thought for certain there should be a hole beneath the feet of the boy with the stick.

Corbinian looked back at the boy. "I'm glad I was late."

"I was, too."

"What's your excuse?"

"My mother," she said, as though that explanation was enough. "She decided upon this evening to instruct me on the ways of affection. I am to _encourage you_ , as she puts it."

"Excellent. Perhaps she and I should compare notes on the subject."

"Maker!" Samantha near dropping her wine glass at the thought.

For the first time all night, he laughed truly. "We're always late to parties. Aside from royalty never arriving on time as a matter of conceit, my mother had to change five times. She's weird about clothes. You, by the way, look beautiful."

"You never fail to compliment me, Beenie."

"I was raised right."

"As opposed to Goran. The other half of your parent's experiment?"

The pair looked across the room to see the Harimanns chatting up the Vaels with Goran at their side, but he wasn't paying attention to the conversation. Rather, he was looking across the room to Flora, who was giggling next to Arianna, still trying to make Benjamin blush.

"Someone's working awfully hard," Samantha commented on Flora's parents.

"You should have seen the invitation. I think they held this party for him." Corbinian meant his brother.

"You mean for Flora?" Samantha noted how Flora was studiously avoiding Goran. "She won't give him a chance."

"I know that. You know that. The entire neighborhood knows that. All but Goran. He's a Vael."

"What does that mean?" She looked up to him.

He smiled down at her. "It means that once we set our eyes on something, we tend to not look away." He sat his drink down on a nearby table. "Come. I requested this song."

She tuned her ear to the orchestra who had just begun playing a piece that sounded very familiar. Just above the clacking of shoes against wood, she thought it sounded like the song from her sixteenth name day party. When she, Corbinian, and Meghan Vael's locket had found solace in her estate's gardens.

The grand ballroom was decorated like a seabed; banners of turquoise and azure boldly waved from far above the dancers’ heads whose bodies were swaying with the ebb and flow of musical current. Men in silken blue doublets and women in sparkling blue satin gowns turned the room into an aquarium of soft movement. There was quiet laughter, gentle smiles, and the damp wisps of hair that fell from so many ladies’ heads implied that they had been dancing in groups, but no longer. Now bodies were coming together in twos, creating spaces in the deluge.

Most of Samantha's and Corbinian's contact came in public after service, with her hand looped through the crook of his elbow as they walked the winding stone path. But to touch his immovable shoulders and his warm neck, and to feel his large hands on her hips and her back… it was a level of intimacy that still felt quite new. In the days since visiting Innley, it was always nice to be touched like that.

"Are you going to pick up where your aunt left off?" she asked, suggesting that he was going to whip Goran into a gentleman.

Corbinian smoothed his right hand around her waist. "I thought we already established that he was a lost cause. I do enjoy goading him, however."

She tried not to feel awkward with her left hand over his shoulder; Corbinian was left-handed and thus they had to do everything backwards. "You will make an excellent Captain, Beenie. The way you inspire people."

"As long as I can inspire the color from you…" He winked.

Maker! He was a boy obsessed with knickers.

The corners of her mouth lifted into a sweet smile, and she recognized that he was trying to cheer her up, to make her forget about Innley, even just for one night. "And what do I receive in return?"

"My good graces." But she made a face and he laughed. "Not enough for you? I'll name my sword after you."

"You're not even trying!" She pushed him a little.

"Oh all right, my horse, too."

"Beenie! You're _not_ going to name a horse after me!"

"You've not met my horse."

Arianna interrupted their smiles. "Such cute laughter!" She was on the arm of Benjamin Garrity, who seemed quite enamored with her – that, or it was the four glasses of champagne in him. "Are you saying naughty things, Beenie?"

"How else am I supposed to improve my reputation?"

"Perhaps it is Sammie's reputation that causes such admirers, then?" She giggled, her gaze drifting past them both.

Samantha turned her head, her silver necklace tickling her collarbone where Meghan Vael's locket was supposed to be as she twisted to discover a man staring at her. He was older, handsome, with dark hair and dots for eyes, and he was dressed in a sharp but plain black suit with a golden vest. When her eyes met his, he gave her a peculiar look, but something happened in those few seconds that turned his mouth into a smile, and the lines around his eyes deepened.

"Andraste's ass…" Corbinian muttered.

Arianna tittered in Benjamin's arms. "Sammie! Did you see that boy, Paavo? The Prestons’ nephew? Isn't he handsome? Did you see?"

Benjamin grumbled to Arianna, "Does your attention ever stay in one place for very long?"

"If that place is interestink, yes," Arianna purred at him.

"Come on, Sammie," Corbinian interrupted, twisting his body around to lead her away from the bickering duo, Arianna and Benjamin.

The Harimanns’ estate was nearly packed, and though the estate itself was large, the front rooms were rather small for so large a gathering. Corbinian's shoulders knocked into people, and he muttered his excuses as he pulled on Samantha's arm.

"Who—?" Samantha tried to ask, but another knock made her teeth chatter. She faintly heard the yell _Lord Ruxton Harimann_ to which the entire front room whooped with laughter.

Her surroundings turned chaotic as they moved with alacrity through a series of rooms filled with people, their faces pinched with half-lidded eyes and wide-open mouths, laughing and loud, a blur of blue joviality. Finally, Corbinian pushed open a windowed set of double doors, stepping onto a terrace covered by an awning. There was a quieter group here, three couples all leaning up against a different spot of the long balcony which overlooked the Harimanns’ gardens. The rain fell softly through the air, patting against the leaves of the barren bushes. The sea was outside on this night as well, it seemed.

The warm night's breeze ruffled Samantha's ribbons. "Who was that? Why did we run away so fast? What's wrong?"

Corbinian took a deep breath, but looked troubled. "That was the Knight Commander."

Samantha felt a wave of surprise roll through her body like a fireball. That man in the plain suit – of course it was plain, it was likely the official suit of the Knight Commander, and he wasn't well-off by any standard.

"Why is he here?"

"Clearly, he was invited. Lady Harimann must be desperate for attention."

"He smiled at me. Why did he do that?" She felt confounded, but Corbinian's shoulders hunched as he dug his hands deep into pockets, entirely displeased. She asked, more to herself: "Is he playing with us?"

"I don't know what he's doing. He refuses all requests to see me, but makes time for _parties_."

He seemed frustrated at the powerlessness of his name. Usually granted audiences with whomever he liked, if his name didn't work, Corbinian didn't know what else to use. She felt powerless, too. From morning to evening, she spent time alone with her tutors or servants, with friends if she could and Corbinian whenever he was available, but always there was Innley. His whimpers echoed through her memory. While Samantha had felt this kind of frustration all her life, she wasn't used to seeing Corbinian this way.

Leading him to an open spot on the balcony, she snaked her arms around his waist, and his body relaxed against her as the ribbons of her dress danced around them wildly, and, for one amazing moment, she felt free of burden. Absorbed in his steadiness, with the whoosh of the breeze and the drone of the rain, she kept focused on the buttons of his crisp shirt, her eyes opened because there were nothing but nightmares in the dark.

Corbinian lifted her chin with a finger, leaning down to kiss her, and she parted her lips to welcome him until the terrace doors opened and they startled back from each other. It was a boy in white; one of the Harimanns’ servants. He surveyed the balcony, and his gaze landed upon the Vael.

"Marquess." He bowed deeply, and the other couples on the balcony turned to stare at Corbinian – he was a celebrity. "Your presence is requested in the second floor library."

Corbinian lifted her hand to his lips. "Meet me in the downstairs sitting room?"

"Okay."

As his back disappeared through the double doors, she lifted her fingers to her cheeks to stave off the flush and wished that somewhere in Starkhaven, there was a moment's privacy.

The path to the downstairs sitting room took a bit longer than it should have, because she wanted to avoid the dancing room for fear of running into the Knight Commander. She passed through room after room and assortments of people and activities; card playing, wine tasting, enormous paintings where someone was describing who was in each one, and a music room where Gwendolyn Fortney was weakly chirping out a song with an accompanying piano, until finally she arrived at her destination. There were nothing but ladies in the downstairs sitting room, and one of them was calling for Samantha.

"Miss Samantha!" Lady Preston waved a hand in the air, each thick finger decorated with a ring. "Come sit with us, dear."

Lady Preston was chatting with her sister, Lady Dufour of Orlais, and the Dufours’ daughter who had already inherited her title, Lady Taru. She was a tiny thing, delicate and pale with amethysts for eyes and hair as black as the night. The two older women were all smiles, but Taru seemed bored, even with a drink held idly in hand. She sighed with ennui under a gigantic window framed with a tapestry that was embroidered with tiny white leaves. They could have been snow, falling sadly over the head of _le petit Taru_.

"Miss Samantha," Lady Preston greeted her warmly. "This is my niece, Lady Taru."

Beleaguered with the events of the evening, Samantha settled nearby on a round cushion chair. She could have conversed with the girl in her native language, as Samantha had been taught Orlesian from a young age, but it would have been rude to those who were nearby. "A pleasure to make your acquaintance."

Taru laboriously opened her mouth to speak, her Orlesian accent as thick as cold butter. "You are attached to the Marquess, no?"

Not technically true, but Samantha nodded.  "Yes. Do you have an engagement back in Orlais?"

The girl paused momentarily, perhaps translating Samantha's words in her head. "No. My brother will not allow it."

That was right; she had a brother, Paavo, the handsome boy Arianna had mentioned. And Samantha had heard that they were twins. "Why not?"

"He believes—mm...." She seemed irritated at having to speak the common language. "How does one know one's art if one does not allow it to explore?"

"Art?"

"Not Art. Art!" Taru rolled her eyes and set a pale hand upon her chest. "Art."

Samantha's mouth formed an ’o’. "Oh! Heart!"

"Yes," she puffed.

"But sometimes, the heart wants what it wants."

"And sometimes the art is stupid," the girl said flippantly, tossing her long flat hair over her shoulder. Samantha decided then that they would not be friends.

Lady Mayweather appeared in the doorway, scanning the room. When she spotted her daughter, she sailed through the sea of blue gracefully, smiling to noble men and women as she passed. She extended her hands to her daughter, lifting her up from her cushion, and for once, Samantha was grateful for her mother's rescue.

"Where is Father?" Samantha asked.

"In the upstairs library." She turned a curious eye to her mother, and as they walked, Lady Mayweather leaned closer to her daughter's ear. "With the Duke and the Marquess…"

Samantha swallowed hard; she had to contain her expression, especially in front of her mother, whose voice betrayed her elation.

"They are speaking about you, for your father is ready to give his consent."

Samantha watched Vincent enter the room and scan all the faces. Then she heard him ask someone if they had seen Helena. They hadn't. "Why this night?"

Her mother slipped her arm through Samantha's as she led her around the room, still speaking softly. "He has been observing you, and when he saw you two greet Lord Kendall, he felt great admiration for a royal boy who would pay such respect to his elders."

Samantha could have been knocked over with a feather – they had gone to visit Lord Kendall in jest, and her parents had seen it as some grand gesture! It was the first time in half a year that she felt like she would burst out laughing. For a fleeting moment, she wanted to. She wanted to laugh madly at the circumstance of this life, at the pomp and the customs, at the rules and the punishments. To tell her mother that what she thought she saw was a great big lie. How many other great big lies did Lady Mayweather choose to see every day?

Her mother continued. "He didn't want to wait, since the Duke's family is here. We don't want to overshadow Lord Harimann's night, so be careful of your expressions, darling. We will announce it properly in the coming weeks."

_Properly_. Was Innley rotting away in that dungeon _properly_? Samantha felt a wave of revulsion for this woman at her side who could so easily dismiss one child while celebrating the other. Suddenly, propriety seemed like the last thing in the world of any importance.

"Do you think about Innley, Mother? Do you wonder what his match to Helena would have been like?"

There was a lapse of time; the sea shifted around them violently but they remained unmolested in their attentions, and the clinking of glasses and high pitched squeals from noblewomen who had drunk too much champagne drifted on the peripheral tide of blue swirling movement.

When words did spill from her lips, Lady Mayweather's voice was gentle and measured. "This is an exciting time, and it will be celebrated with decorum. Never you mind about the details, darling. I'll take care of everything."

She stared up into her mother's face, the expression warm yet opaque. Just like Innley, in her mother's eyes Samantha didn't exist either, replaced with the daughter of her dreams.

"Darling." Samantha's father stepped in front of them, and he was smiling – smiling! She didn't know he could do that.

"Father." She greeted him dully.

The royal family came through the doors then, and conversations quieted considerably as the Vaels joined the Mayweathers. Samantha and her mother separated to curtsey. They would not come together again.

"My Lady." The Duke of Starkhaven bowed deeply before them. "Miss Samantha."

"Your Excellency." Lady Mayweather blushed.

The Duchess smiled warmly. "I believe we will be dining again soon."

"I look forward to it."

Corbinian appeared behind them somewhat dazedly, and Goran behind him. The Marquess spoke as if he had been given a directive. "Miss Samantha, won't you allow us to take you home in the royal carriage?"

If they didn't want to overshadow Ruxton's night, they were doing a poor job. Still, there was only one answer to give, and she accepted with a noble's cordiality. The Duchess extended her arm, and Samantha took it somewhat awkwardly. She was a tall woman, slender and graceful, and being this close to her reminded Samantha of Goran. Yes, she realized, Goran resembled his mother quite resoundingly.

As the two families made their way out of the party, Corbinian's mother leaned into Samantha's ear and said in her drippy drawl: "There is plenty of time to think about it and a child isn't expected in your first year, but there is a naming tradition that we should speak of."

_Andraste's Flaming Sword_! Children?

To her parents, Samantha was a tool. To his parents, she was an heir-making factory. To the Knight Commander, she was a pawn. To her friends, she was an accessory. She glanced over her shoulder to Corbinian who smiled at her amusedly, likely enjoying her suffering on his mother's arm. At least to him, she was just Sammie.

That was worth the color, and she mouthed the word, “ _white”_ , much to his delight.


	10. 9:27 Dragon, Early Spring

**9:27 Dragon, Early Spring**

To say that Corbinian and Samantha were standing in a darkened corner of the Circle library was a bit of a misnomer, because every corner was dark. They were waiting. They had been waiting for half an hour. The pair found it much easier to arrange this visit, because the Grand Cleric had recently left Starkhaven with her entourage to attend the Ten Year Gathering in Orlais.

Held at the beginning of spring, the Ten Year Gathering was a meeting where every Grand Cleric from every major city made a pilgrimage to the White Divine's Spire in Orlais to meet about current issues facing the Chantry, and no less than five hundred of Starkhaven's citizens joined as pilgrims. One of those citizens just so happened to be the Knight Commander of Starkhaven.

With a quieter Chantry and Templar Order, Corbinian had found it much easier to bypass the layers of bureaucracy and suddenly the Vael name had weight again. Admittedly, neither Corbinian or Samantha knew anything about the inner workings of the Circle, nor about their fraternities or politics. So, when Corbinian learned that Innley was going to be released back into the general population, his natural reaction was to ask why. The ensuing answers were all rather confusing.

Some elaborate ritual exorcism had taken the place of the Rite of Tranquility, and the demons attacking Innley had been repelled, or so Corbinian's Circle contacts said. When pressed, they clarified that he wasn't possessed, but didn't say much more than that. Afterwards, he had been given a series of magical exams – not a Harrowing – and was allowed small freedoms at first: an unlocked cell, visits from fraternity mages, and the permission to work simple spells. Additionally, he was repeatedly given tests of sanity, because they wouldn't allow him to be released until his mental state could be known for certain – which Corbinian found rather ironic. The Circle wasn't exactly a nurturing environment. As to why he ended up in that cell, _the_ _incident_ , they heard naught but a vague reference.

The reason Innley was being let loose from strict restriction was because he had been sponsored by a fraternity; in essence, some group of Enchanters volunteered to mentor and train him, to guide him not just with magic, but with points of etiquette, such as _when to talk_. Then, of course, he would need to pass his Harrowing once he turned nineteen. The Enchanters, who themselves were also a mystery, claimed him in late winter and it wasn't long after that before the fraternity was able to help him pass his sanity tests; thus, Innley was as free as a Circle mage could be.

Once they learned when Francesca was due to leave the city, it had only taken a month for Corbinian to arrange a visit – with the help of Ser Traven this time. The Templar seemed to feel so terrible about their previous visit that he had taken a special interest in helping Samantha see her brother. This time, Traven had escorted them only as far as the marble-encased library, but the same thick darkness covered everything from the wall sconces that flickered at their passing to the barren faces of nameless mages.

"What's taking so long?" Samantha whined.

Corbinian didn't say anything. He looked tense; his hands were clasped behind his back, his shoulders squared and his jaw set firm. Samantha dealt with her nerves by fidgeting, but the marquess was made of stone.

"He'll be here," Traven assured her. He walked out between the stacks for the third time, and for the third time, the battleaxe strapped to his back tapped against his plate mail creating a pinging sound that made Samantha want to tear someone's eyes out.

She grew fitful in the silence of waiting – she got enough of that at home – and besides, it was rude to stand around and say nothing. "Where are you from, Ser Traven?" she asked the Templar.

He glanced back at her with little patience. "Why?"

She paused at his suspicion. "If you prefer we stand in silence—"

His shoulders dropped. "My apologies, my lady. I'm used to mages who have less than honorable intentions. I grew up an orphan in the Chantry of Nevarra. I believe I was born in the Anderfels."

"What happened to your family?"

"My mother lives, my lady."

She blinked naively. "Then how can you be an orphan?"

"Because she is a whore. At least, she was when I was born." He offered a small smile when Samantha’s cheeks flushed. "There is no need to feel embarrassed, my lady. It is a simple truth about her, not about me."

He turned his shoulders away, stepping between the stacks to see if Innley was coming yet, and again his battleaxe pinged annoyingly.

Corbinian had listened to their exchange in curiosity. "Why did you join the Order?"

"Seemed like a noble thing to do. Protect mages. Protect people. Be part of something good."

Samantha and Corbinian exchanged glances; Ser Traven had used the past tense.

"Here we go," Traven said, and Corbinian managed to stand up a little straighter while Samantha took a step forward.

She had been expecting a boy to round the corner, but instead came face to face with a man. He had the same soft bronze hair as hers, but Innley's had changed and now hung to his shoulders. He had a scar over his left brow which divided it in two, and the eyes beneath seemed sharper than she remembered. She had to tilt her chin back to look at him, for he was now taller as well. The only thing that remained from the dungeon was his stubbly beard, which, now trimmed to a patch on his chin, looked much nicer.

It seemed like no one had told him where he was headed, for the look of confusion that graced his fair face gave way, at first, to recognition, and then unrestrained joy. For the first time at the Circle, Samantha saw happiness on a mage's face.

"Sammie…?" He opened his mouth in surprise, and she didn't wait to throw her arms around his neck and hug him close. "Sammie…" He gripped her tight, breathing her name again and again, and she closed her eyes, no longer fearing the darkness as relief poured out in her tears. She hadn't realized just how tense she had been for the last year, but holding her brother close, whole and new, she relapsed into innocence, even if it was just for a moment.

"I can't breathe…" he rasped and she loosened her arms. "There… Maker's breath! You seem taller."

"Taller? I'm shorter than you now!"

He chuckled softly, and she felt grateful that the Circle hadn't taken away his calm demeanor. "How did you get in here? Do Mother and Father know?"

"Maker, no!" She laughed, gesturing to Corbinian. "Beenie arranged our visit in secret."

It took a moment for her brother to tear his eyes away from her, but he seemed startled at Corbinian's presence. "Beenie… I didn't see you there!" He thrust his hand forward, and the marquess grasped Innley's hand with both of his. " _You_ arranged this?"

"Took me long enough," Corbinian muttered. He was trying to make a joke, but his relief was obvious. "You look well."

"I feel fine," Innley assured them both. "Everyone keeps a close watch on me these days, but I feel fine."

"Do you… remember anything?" Samantha asked cautiously, although she was afraid of his answer. "Do you remember our visit?"

He hesitated before he answered, glancing at Traven and biting his bottom lip pensively. "No. I'm sorry, I don't. They tell me that I was… not myself."

"You were out of sorts," Corbinian said with a smirk. "A right mess. The only thing that would have made it worse is getting riotously drunk and dancing in the fountain of Andraste!"

Samantha had been worried about what to say, but she should have known that Corbinian would make the exchange easier.

Innley stifled his laugh, as if he were used to keeping his voice hushed at all times. "I am treated just fine here. They won't let me out, of course, but I guess you can't have everything."

"Why didn't you ever tell me?" she asked him quietly. "About being a mage?"

He moved his hand to hers. "I didn't want you to have to lie for me. It wouldn't have been fair to you."

"But I would never have told—!"

"I know that! But you would never have been safe. Magic is a part of _me_. It doesn't have to be a part of you. And besides that, you're a terrible liar."

Corbinian chuckled. "Got that right."

“Hey!” Samantha pouted. "I can keep secrets!"

Innley grinned. "I'm sorry, sister, but you really can't. Remember when our father's pocket watch went missing?"

"I was six!" she protested. "He cornered me! What was I supposed to do?"

"You were supposed to lie!" His smile quickly faded. "Do they… talk about me?"

She opened her mouth, wishing more than anything for a lie to come out, but nothing did.

Crestfallen, he looked down to his soft shoes, which drew Samantha’s gaze to the rest of his attire: he was wearing a dress – well, it was technically a robe – and she wondered if he was wearing traditional attire underneath.

"I talk about you," Samantha said resolutely, and her brother looked up, his eyes reddened with blinked-back tears.

"Then I suppose you're all I've got."

"Ahem." Corbinian lifted his hand up. "Someone else. Right here."

Innley chuckled softly. "Right. I suppose I could do worse than a marquess."

"I believe that's how Sammie feels as well."

They all chuckled, and even Ser Traven, who was working to stay out of the way, smiled quietly.

"How is it here otherwise?" Samantha asked her brother.

He shrugged. "It's all right, I suppose. I have a fraternity interested in me – well, interested in my abilities, I guess. They are just over there." He pointed down the row and Samantha tilted her neck, peering past the bookshelf to see where he meant.

At the tip of Innley's finger was an eclectic group of mages, who all wore long grey robes with delicate red thread woven in a pattern along the hem. There was a woman with a strange tattoo on her face, a long-haired young man who walked with a cane, a very dark-skinned boy around Innley's age, an older man with a shock of blond hair and a beard that nearly covered his face, and a comely woman who was staring off into space. In between hushed whispers, they would occasionally glance over at a pair of Templars, one of which was Langley, who was sneering in return. Apparently, contempt for mages was something the mages didn't approve of.

Innley pointed at each mage in succession. "That's Grace, Wendell, Alain, Decimus, and Terrie. They are quite kind, actually. They have been helping me with my magic. Learn spells, learn to harness energy, learn to control my dreams. It's all normal stuff for mages, apparently."

This was all new to Samantha. "Wow."

"Decimus has been great. He's my mentor. He may look like a traveling worker, but he's got a keen mind. And Grace, she's quite funny. She has this great joke about—" he glanced at Traven who had taken a sudden interest. "—about goats. And Alain, he's just like me, actually; his parents live in Nevarra, and he was taken away from them and brought here. They were all very impressed to know that I was born here. They say that it's really rare that a mage is allowed to stay in the city where their family is."

"Why?"

"They have done studies. Seems mages are likely to escape if they're familiar with the city, whereas if the mage is a stranger to the area, they are more likely to accept life in the Circle."

"So you get to be their experiment, then?" Corbinian joked.

"In more than ways than one," Innley quickly replied, but glanced at Traven nervously after the words left his mouth.

Samantha looked cautiously at Traven, too; the Templar was watching Innley, but he didn't seem as intense as Langley. She asked her brother, "So, they're watching out for you, then?"

He hemmed a little. "For the most part. Terrie, she's been really great. She makes sure I have all my books and my robes. There are so many rules here… you wouldn't believe it."

"It sounds like they're a good lot."

"They aren't like you, and this isn't home—" He hesitated another moment, glancing at Traven nervously before he spoke again. "If I pass my Harrowing and become an Enchanter someday, I'll be able to join their order. I'll have a voice here, respect, a title."

His voice trailed off but he never looked away. She could see it in his eyes. There were other things he wanted to say but didn't because of the Templar standing nearby listening to their every word. His chin tipped down sadly, and Samantha felt like a child for all her powerlessness. It didn't feel fair, this type of youth, to be thrust into adulthood too soon where the life ahead seemed to loom instead of tempt.

Her chin wavered. "I miss you."

"I miss you, too," he whispered.

"Forgive me." Ser Traven had become an expert at apologies. "It's time Innley returned to his duties."

He hugged her again, tighter than she had squeezed him before, and she heard his voice, barely perceptible, in her ear. "I want to go home."

But he couldn't come home, and even if he did, she knew her parents would turn him back over to the Circle. He wasn't their son anymore. He wasn't even a Mayweather. As much as Samantha treasured seeing him, she wondered if perhaps keeping him in Starkhaven, like Innley had suggested earlier, was a bad idea. Was he less likely to accept his life here?

Corbinian placed a hand on her arm, and Samantha turned her head against Innley's shoulder, looking into the Vael-blue eyes of the person who made this possible, and grateful for his intervention. Upon release, she touched her brother's face, wanting to preserve the memory in every possible way, and underneath her hands, his eyes pleaded for a different life. Samantha wondered if she had done him a disservice by coming here. Had she made things worse?

It looked like it pained Ser Traven to gesture to the other Templars to lead Innley away, but her brother didn't move as they came for him. He didn't blink when they placed their armored fingers on his shoulder where her cheek had just been. He didn’t speak when they ordered him to return down the hall. And he didn't fight them when they pushed his body into movement. They weren't unkind, but they were his keepers, his jailors disguised as protectors, and the obvious truth that went ignored was how much they enjoyed it.

The world seemed less majestic that it had before. Evil used to be ethereal, a construct made of imaginary figures in books and legends, but now it had a face – no, worse, a whole group of faces. Templars, the Knight Commander, magic, and her parents. Evil was made by women and men who insisted that the evil they did was somehow less evil than that of others. Did the fact that they saved Innley from an attack by a demon – or so they said – mean that all the other things they did were justifiable? Locking him up? Keeping them apart? What they did, and how they did it, created the stigma that kept her parents from acknowledging Innley's existence.

Traven led her and Corbinian back through the library stacks, and the bookcases passed by in a blur of dim browns and greens muted by shadow and torchlight. Once back into the bright world, filled with the Maker's light, she thought again about the lack of windows in the Circle. Someone should do something about that, she thought. The Maker's Light should shine on the mages, too.

Traven bowed formally but uncomfortably at the Circle gates, and the Marquess of Starkhaven thanked him for his service. And then it was over. Just like that.

Corbinian looked to the setting sun on the horizon. "I should get you home."

Her parents assumed she had been in the gardens with Corbinian all day. They were so easily fooled these days, willing to accept any lie as long as it involved the Vaels. It had almost become boring to lie to them, as bad as she was at it – Innley was right about that. She hooked her hand through his elbow as he walked her through the neighborhood, and she paused at the fountain of Andraste, looking up the warrior prophetess for answers, but finding only stone.

"Tell me everything will be all right," she said hollowly, turning to see Corbinian staring at Andraste as well.

She wasn't sure she believed him when he said, "Everything will be all right, Sammie." She wasn't sure he believed it, either.

"Can you come by tonight?"

"Only if it's through your window." He hadn't lost his sense of humor. "I don't even want to see _my_ parents tonight."

"At least you can avoid yours."

They walked slowly back to her estate, their moods subdued after such an emotionally exhausting afternoon at the Circle. Still, he bowed deeply at the door, and gave her a wink before sauntering off down the street.

She bathed, spent the evening in silence with her parents at dinner, and then later in the solemn library of her family estate she read _Thedas: Myths and Legends_ by the famed Chantry scholar, Brother Genetivi; Samantha always enjoyed his writing.

Finally, when she was dismissed to her bedroom, she walked up the darkened stairs of her darkened house, pausing to scowl at the portrait of flowers where Innley used to be. Sometimes, she wished she had the courage to rip the painting from the wall and smash it into a million pieces.

She paused once she got to her room, for draped across the chair of her writing desk was a dark coat, its long back pooling on the rug. A fire bounced up and down in the hearth and she stared at it for a moment before her gaze shot over to her bed... where Corbinian reclined, his hands behind his head, wearing wool trousers, a high-collared tunic, and a smile.

She brought a hand to her forehead. " _Maker_ , Beenie. You scared me! I didn't think you'd be here already!"

"Close the door."

She pushed the heavy plank of wood closed and when she turned back around, he was beside her, sweeping her up against him and twirling her around the room. Her melancholy nearly fell away with his warmth infecting her.

He kissed her, sweet and celebratory, but pulled back shortly after, setting her feet upon the rug. "What's wrong? I thought you'd be happy."

"I was. I am. I mean…"

He sat down on the edge of her bed. "What?"

She stared at her hands in his; they were the same color, stained from the sun. Innley's had been shades lighter, withdrawn from the Maker's light. "Seeing him was a reminder of how he isn't here. He's there."

He nodded slowly. "But he's all right. He's safe and reasonably well. And you have my word that you can consider that the first visit of many."

"Really?" Was it too much to hope for?

"Really. Someday, Innley will be an Enchanter, and then he will be allowed to leave the Circle for all sorts of formal occasions."

"Don't tease me." Samantha cracked a smile.

"Perhaps even royal functions." He spread his arms wide. "Where I am the guest of honor and whoever I wish to attend will attend!"

She let out a small laugh.

"Perhaps royal functions where you are the guest of honor."

"That should be awkward for my parents," she said sourly.

He chuckled. "I've just arranged my nineteenth name day ceremony. I'm assuming you'll be there."

"Nineteen… nineteen. Is that an important year?" she teased, finding her mirth.

He shrugged. "Sort of. I mean, I'll be taking the Oath in front of my father, the prince, the Grand Cleric, the First Enchanter, the Knight Commander, and… well, everyone else in Granite Circle."

Her jaw dropped. "Well, you certainly know how to throw a party!" She suspected there was something else, but he just grinned like fool.

Standing up, he crossed the room to remove a small bottle of spirits from his coat pocket. He popped the cork and took a swig before handing the bottle over, and she took it gratefully, not realizing until that moment how much she desired a drink.

When the moon came into view outside her window, they blew out the candles of her room so she could fake sleeping. The hearth outlined the shapes of her room in thin strips of gold. Her bedposts wiggled with animation, her curtains fluttered in an imaginary wind, and atop her bed, Corbinian's cheeks grew full as he smiled. Passing the bottle between them, they sat across from each other as the night transformed the world into geometric shapes.

"Everything will change, you know," he whispered. "After that day."

"No more apprenticing with Lord Kendall?"

"He's taught me all that he can. I'll be left to my own devices, finally."

"Maker help us."

"He's too old to travel, you know."

"So you'll be traveling alone?" She passed him the bottle and he cracked a grin that turned into a genuine smile, the darkness parting with the white of his teeth. She reached out a finger to his cheeks playfully, and he swatted her away good naturedly.

"I know, I'll take you to Nevarra," he started with a hushed whisper. "There is a giant park behind the Chantry. Almost half a mile. It's huge. There's an enormous tree in that park with these rose bushes that have grown over the path, and on the other side of the tree is a tiny little clearing and a bench." She watched him talk, his voice rolling over the words in his Starkhaven accent. "I'll show you that bench when we visit."

Only a few years ago, she had doubted him. She had questioned the strength of his affection, but here in the dark, with the fire's wobbly light across half his face, she felt a swell of emotion. This boy that she had known since he was a child and would know after he became a man turned her body electric. Somewhere deep inside there was a thrumming, like he had reached into her chest and plucked a set of lute strings attached to her heart, and her whole being vibrated with song.

"What are we going to do on that bench?" she whispered back with a wicked grin.

He took several things in his hands at that moment; first the bottle of spirits, setting it upon her bedside table, then her wrists as he crossed them behind his neck, and finally that smooth patch of skin on her back just where he said he would all those years ago. As she moved into his lap, his right hand moved up her neck and into her hair.

They had spent many evening in such states, with his hands in her hair, and her hands underneath his shirt, falling back onto her bed in ardor but never to completion – again, with his gentlemanly ideas. But this night was different. On this night, when he kissed her, the vibrating lute strings became a symphony, swelling the warmth into insistence, and she felt it inside them both. When they fell back onto her pillow, she assumed that this was it. But instead, he stopped.

"What's wrong?" she asked breathlessly.

"I was thinking of that day in the barn."

She gave a sly smile. "Which one?"

"I know you remember," he teased.

Even in the low light, she could see the redness in his ears, and she supposed that she would always know him better than anyone else, these little details discovered in intimate moments. "You said…" She closed her eyes trying to remember. "Something about… the point of courtship."

"Yes." He was watching her lips move. "I said that I was going to request permission from your father before things got any more serious with us."

"Oh, is _that_ what you were saying?" she teased him back, tugging on his hair.

"I didn't want to disrespect you, silly girl."

"Obviously you've come to your senses."

He sighed with a shake of his head under her hands. "I haven't yet." He brushed her hair back with his sword hand, and she always liked the way his calluses felt against her skin. Something about the roughness of them made her feel quite feminine.

"Don't tell me you're going to start reciting poetry," she joked, but hiding that perhaps she actually wanted a declaration.

He smiled. "I'm not going to smooth talk your dress off you. Though I would surely love to know the color of what's beneath."

She answered immediately: "Blue."

His flushed hot, which she liked. "I don't want… Well, I do—" He stopped and then started again. "I want you to want to. Not because you think I want to."

She had seen the look he was giving her before. It was the same look that Sebastian's brother gave his wife as they sat in a carriage, parading their newborn son around town. It was a look that Arianna Marziano had called _dolcezza_ , which translated from Antivan means something close to gentleness, and it was a look that Samantha wasn't really expecting.

"You're not new to this…"

"But that shouldn't matter. Did you think I was expecting it? That's not right."

He was sort of surprising in his gentlemanly ideas. It had been four months since her father had given his permission, and yet Corbinian had waited this long, and now he still waited, never pressing like so many other boys. The noble children of Starkhaven were not a prude bunch – well, maybe except for Ruxton Harimann, who blushed like a flower whenever someone mentioned anything remotely related to sex.

"But before—"

"None of that was serious. Not like you and me."

"You and me is it?"

"You and me, Sammie." And he meant always.

Often his irreverence implied a total lack of seriousness, but when he wanted to be serious like this, she was reminded again that he could change the trajectory of anything simply with his words. She felt suddenly nervous, as they were often irreverent together, and turning serious wasn't in their nature.

She wanted to say something meaningful or important, something to match that look he was giving her, but the between the darkness and his arms lie her thumping heart, her greatest vulnerability. It was something she had given away so long ago, she couldn't remember when it didn't belong to Corbinian. He must know. Those three words, never spoken aloud but forever implied. Looks, longing in their secrecy, in their youth, in their desire.

But, of course, he saved her from a response. "Sammie, you don't have to say anything. I just wanted you to know how I felt about it."

"Well, I…" She wanted to say something about how she felt about it, too, but the truth of it was that she had been attached to Corbinian for so long, that she had forgotten her own experiences with how demanding boys could be – namely, a certain exiled prince. "No one has ever asked me." It felt like a stupid thing to say. She could have thought of something better, something that didn't inspire the troubled look that it produced upon his fair features. That look twisted her stomach into knots. She tightened her hold behind his neck, trying to assuage his concern. "No, it's not like that. I don't know how to explain… it's just different for girls, I guess. We're at odds with each other more often than not, and when boys are against you, too… sometimes it's easier to just—"

"I don't want you to do whatever is easiest with me." He nearly spoke aloud with a conviction she had rarely seen. His arms tightened around her. "I may not be the most devout Andrastean, but that would be a sin that I could never live with."

She laughed spontaneously. "Contrary to the list that you could live with."

She could see his cheeks puff out in the dim light. "Everyone has their standards."

"Mine might be subject…"

"You think the Maker would object? To me?" He had that _I'm a Vael_ sound in his voice.

Teasing, she said, "Well, they say that the Maker has a plan for each of us in his grand plan for the world."

He considered her for a moment. "Then if His plan should ever separate me from you, Sammie, I will move the stars from the sky, I will fight demons and mages and dragons and Qunari, I will cross the Fade if I have to until I am returned to you."

There were a million things that were happening in the world at that very moment, but none mattered except for this one. She lifted up to her knees and started unbuttoning the back of her long dress. Corbinian just stared at her with wide eyes, as if he were expecting her to stop and laugh and claim it was all in good fun, but she kept her gaze fixed on his. As the cool night air traveled down her back, her bravery grew in the soft hearth's light that hinted the room. When she pulled the front of her dress down the length of her arms, she could see his Vael-blue eyes scan the length of her.

Her underwear was a pale blue with lace, like all of her favorite clothes.

He just stared at her for a long moment in the silence of the room, and his voice was unfathomably quiet when he said, "Maker's breath, Sammie."

Clothing was important to many people in Starkhaven, and often the more of it that someone wore, the more money and class they had. Lace tunics over bodices and petticoats, covered with vests and jackets and ribbons and shawls. To have them all removed, to show so much skin that was so rarely seen by anyone but a nursing mother or a maid, was one of the most intimate moments often saved for honeymoons or wedding nights. Even her friends, in their deviancy, never removed their clothes. Somehow, though he would swear he never tried, he had talked her out of her dress.

He lifted himself to his knees on her bed, his warm hands moving around her waist and it was a new and wonderful sensation to feel them on her bare skin. He seemed to be nervous or something, like he wasn't sure if he should touch her, and so she guided his hands to her body, and once given permission he was suddenly quite sure, knowing exactly where he wanted to touch her, but with softness, mindful of pressure and movement.

"Beenie," she whispered and he paused. The light of the room was nearly gone. Was there something she wanted to say? Was there something she was afraid to say? The conversations with her father, the letters, the Circle and Innley, the years that stretched behind them, and a lifetime of private jokes and inseparability had all fostered within Samantha a sense of self; she was who she was because of him, and the same went for Corbinian.

It was as if he knew what she wanted to say and so he whispered it first. "Sammie. Surely, you must know…" She was thinking about what he was about to say, the weight of those words and if things would change after, but she lost her train of thought when he said: "You are like the sun, Sammie. You light up everything, and when you go away, you take all warmth with you. I've loved you since that first day in the training yard when you called my sword small and likened my stance to a goat's." They both chuckled. "He made you beautiful and perfect. And maybe even for me."

And that was when the moment overtook them both, warm kisses with her hands moving up his back and his hands sliding up her neck. She folded his tunic backwards off his shoulders; he pulled the last ribbons from her hair. She unlaced his trousers, and he unclasped her lace underwear. They lowered themselves down to the pillows, holding each other closer than anyone would ever know, until that moment when she whispered that she loved him, too. And what was left was the loveliness in the details.


	11. 9:27 Dragon, Late Spring

**9:27 Dragon, Late Spring**

It wasn't every day that a Vael turned nineteen, and it was certainly uncommon for that Vael to take the Oath of Starkhaven at his name day celebration.

She had once asked him what prompted such a grand gesture, and he had replied in his characteristically snarky manner, "Because beautiful girls like you need a champion." Getting a straight answer out of him was exhausting. Still, many of those who had thought poorly of him because of that one night four years ago would likely think differently once he took the Oath. They would be the last of his detractors, however, because Corbinian was quite popular these days, amongst the nobles and commoners alike in addition to the majority of the armed forces. He was a natural leader: clever, eloquent, and always showed the proper respect.

The entirety of Granite Circle had been invited to the ceremony, in addition to some minor lords who held prominent positions with the merchant class. While the future prince's name day celebration had been the most lavish party Samantha had ever attended, this night was coming in a close second.

From the moment she entered the Royal Palace's grand ballroom, she had felt overwhelmed at the pomp, despite how accustomed she was to pageantry. Apparently, it had been too long since the Oath had been taken, because the decorations were egregious. Starkhaven's red and black banners commanded the room from every wall, hanging from ceiling supports and nearly touching the floor. Red cloths with the Starkhaven Seal in the center were draped over every table, and every single candle in the room was either black or red. Whoever designed the decorations at least had the forethought to add touches of gold to each decoration, otherwise this event could be mistaken for a military function.

As for the rest, the party was really just like any other. Tiny pieces of art that were actually food were stacked high upon serving trays that danced upon the fingertips of the servants that snaked through the room. There must have been more than fifty servants with their trays held high above their heads. Three passed Samantha within minutes of her entrance, but she still had to be quick to snatch a glass of spirits.

The colors of fashion had not been so restricted, though many revelers apparently felt it right to dress in accordance with tradition. Half of the ladies in the room wore red velvet and black satin. Lord Garrity was wearing a red velvet doublet over his enormous belly, and every time he went to scratch his whiskers the black piping along the arms crunched, as though the garment came from the Towers Age.

Samantha had ordered her dress's fashion plate from Antiva for this night. The fashions of the northern regions were not the most popular, but she had become enamored with one in particular. It was deep yellow and, in the right light, the golden beads that were stitched across the sleeveless silk bodice sparkled. The back of the dress laced up with a thick length of silk and showed a v-patch of skin down her back, which was a little risqué. Between the golden chains in her hair and Corbinian's grandmother Meghan's locket on her collarbone, Samantha felt a little out of place.

It was easy enough to slink away from her parents, for once around nobles, their attentions were drawn to making their own achievements known – namely, that their daughter was attached to royalty. Bringing her wine glass to her lips, Samantha scanned the room for familiar faces, finally spotting Flora's back draped in silken black.

She was talking to a tall boy, fair of skin, and though he couldn't remove his eyes from her, she seemed entirely bored. Flora looked up to him only to turn away disinterestedly, lifting her chin over her shoulder to check the guests. Samantha caught Flora's eye, raising a brow at this pasty boy, and Flora barely excused herself as she hurried away. The boy looked disappointed.

The pair met somewhere near the center, reaching for each other's hands, and Samantha held herself away to get a good look. Flora's dress was all silk with lavender sprigs decorating her hair. When she smiled, there was only one way to describe her.

"Flora, you look lovely!"

"Me?" Flora gave her exaggerated gawk. "Look at you! Holy Maker in the Fade – you look amazing!"

"You're yelling." Samantha said, laughing.

"Oh, sorry." She covered her mouth, though between the music and the conversations echoing off the high-ceiling, no one likely heard her. "I've had two glasses of sparkling wine already, and you have to try those little apple quiches. Maferath would have kept Andraste had she learned to make them."

"Oh, right. That's what Andraste's great crime was – she couldn't cook."

"Well, he was a barbarian. I bet he ate nothing but berries and dried beef."

"Maybe that's why he gave her up – poor nutrition," Samantha joked and Flora rolled her eyes. "And he repented because—"

"Because everyone repents when facing the spear." Flora tossed back her drink, but she wasn't laughing. Instead, she had focused a very serious look across the room.

Samantha followed her gaze to find her friend's mother, Lady Johane, standing stiffly not far away. When she and Samantha met gazes, Lady Johane looked away, her expression softening as she smiled at someone else in conversation.

Glancing at her friend, she wondered if there was a familial rift, but didn't want to press matters at a social gathering. Thankfully, Samantha didn't have to fill the silence, because as a group move away from them, opening up a space in the crowd, Flora's pout came to an abrupt halt, her eyes fixed at some point in the distance. "Andraste have mercy…"

Samantha saw her, too. Arianna Marziano was wearing one of the strangest dresses she had ever seen. Long and slender, the blood-red lace dress hugged her body, crawled up her neck to the base of her skull, and then fanned out wildly. She had cut the front of her yellow-gold hair for the occasion as well, styled to hang thickly over her eyes.

Samantha hesitated. "Well… she looks…"

"Like a witch of the wilds?" Flora finished.

"I'm glad you said it first."

Both burst into giggles, and from somewhere behind them, they heard Lord Kendall shout _what_ to someone. Samantha smiled to herself, wondering about Corbinian. She turned, looking for his Vael-auburn hair and those shoulders she knew so well, but the enormous ballroom was filled with people much taller than her. Instead of finding the man she most desired, her eyes met the man she had decided to despise: the Knight Commander of Starkhaven.

When he smiled warmly, Samantha felt distinctly uncomfortable.

She linked her arm through Flora's. "Let's take a turn about the room."

The pair strolled through casually, whispering about the ridiculous dramas infecting the families of Starkhaven. Lady Fortney was standing with her son Robaire; nearly as tall as his older sister Gwendolyn now, though the girl was still skinny as a post. The trio was chatting with the Lord and Lady Tyler, and Vincent stood at their side, strangely alone.

"Where's Helena?" Samantha asked.

Flora lowered her voice, leaning to Samantha's ear. "Top secret – apparently, Helena is dating a Templar."

"A Templar?" The daughter of a noble family waist deep in gold was dating a penniless Templar? The girl that would have been matched with Innley was dating a Templar? The word _Templar_ kept ringing through her head, but Samantha just said, "Is she trying to make her parents mad or something? Getting back at them?"

"Probably. I'll bet you a hundred sovereigns that's where she is right now. This party is really the perfect cover for a secret rendezvous." She sipped her drink artfully.

Samantha waved at Lady Preston who smiled at Samantha's passing. "So that's why Lady Fortney is introducing her daughter to Vincent…?"

"Yes." Flora sighed. "Gwendolyn isn't exactly drawing a line of suitors. I think her parents are worried that her health will prevent a match."

Samantha glanced at the girl. "Can't the alchemists make her something?"

"You mean use _magic_?" Flora replied sardonically, her expression exaggerated.

Samantha smirked; it seemed ridiculous that so many would spurn all advances in modern magical medicine, simply because the stigma associated with magic and mages. Her gaze drifted back to the room only to find the eyes of the Knight Commander, which were like beady black dots, focused squarely on her. She absentmindedly huffed in irritation.

"What?" Flora asked.

Samantha turned so she wasn't facing him, hoping to hide that she was speaking of him. "The Knight Commander. He's watching me. I think he knows that I visit Innley, but I don't care how strongly he tries to intimidate me. Innley seems to be happier every time I see him. Oh, Flora, you wouldn't recognize him in that dress they make him wear, but he has grown into a man – a mage, but a man. He's so handsome, too. I bet half of Starkhaven's girls would have looked at him like—"

"Like the way the Knight Commander is looking at you?" Flora was openly staring at the Templar, who was wearing his plain Templar suit and his plain Templar vest.

"You caught that, too?" Samantha shuddered. "It's frightening."

"Yes. Yes, it is." She didn't need further convincing. "Speaking of… my mother actually mentioned Goran Vael the other day. I swear to the Maker, she is driving me mad with this."

She could see plainly how Flora's mother was grating on her friend's last nerve. "You know, if you faked an interest in Goran, you might be able to convince your mother to let you stay with me this summer. Maybe it will buy you a reprieve."

"I don't think I can fake that," Flora replied glumly. "Besides, she always knows when I lie." Samantha knew that feeling, and smiled at her friend with compassion. Flora smiled back sadly, pulling her further away from scrying ears."She's made me... offers. To... you know..." She flung her wrists as if the rest of that statement was obvious, but huffed when Samantha shook her head in confusion. "She wants me to marry him."

Samantha nearly coughed up her wine, covering her mouth as she worked to control her laughter, but Flora wasn't laughing; she was dead serious. "You're not joking?" When Flora shook her head, Samantha calmed, turning thoughtful. "She is adamant, isn't she?"

"She thinks I should marry royalty. Corbinian and the other prince's are taken... So..." Flora looked away, her eyes surveying the room, and acting like they were discussing mundane things. The weather, fashions, food; but Samantha could see how deeply troubled she was.

While Samantha was certainly no fan of pleasing her own mother, she wondered if Flora stubbornness about Goran came from a similar place. The last time Samantha had mentioned him, Flora had stuck her tongue out in disgust, but she wondered if Flora would ever consider him. What if he grew to be a handsome man? He was no scholar, but he wasn't a slouch, either. It was unfortunate, because he wasn't like everyone thought he was.

Normally, she would never press her friend over matters of the heart - Flora was as secretive as a sealed envelope - but the wine and her friend's distress made her wonder... Samantha asked, "Since my sixteenth name day, have you spoken to Goran?"

" _Hessarian_ ' _s Poisoned Spear_! No!" Flora nearly dropped her wine glass. "I would sooner speak to a elf."

Samantha shook her head, chuckling softly. "You might give him another shot. He's not so—"

"Don't even say it." Flora cut her off, her eyes closed in obstinacy. "Goran is a fool. A dim-witted, clumsy, fat fool. I swear to Andraste, sitting beside the Maker himself, I am not interested in Goran, and I never will be. Ever."

"Well," Samantha said reproachfully. "That was dramatic."

"Obviously, you can't tell Corbinian I said that."

"I won't breathe a word," Samantha promised ruefully.

"Breathe a word about what?" Corbinian's jovial voice floated over their heads from behind, and Flora jumped.

"Maker's breath!" She exhaled loudly. "You're always sneaking up on us!"

When Samantha turned around, she was a little taken aback. He was dressed in a very formal suit; pitch black with the Starkhaven Royal Seal on the lapel, but his vest was gold, just like her dress. He gave her one of his smiles, the kind that was meant to disarm and it always worked.

In one of his hands, he held two glasses of champagne, which he handed over. "It's a talent. I could teach it to Goran if you like."

"And I could kick you in the shins if you like." Flora smiled sweetly.

Corbinian smirked at Flora, but reached for Samantha's hand in a gentlemanly greeting. "Nice necklace."

"Nice vest."

"Your mother," he explained, rubbing his forefinger against the fabric of his tunic. "She wanted us to match."

"Matching is her hobby." She was a little distracted by his hair, remembering the way it felt underneath her hands only a few days prior.

"Aside from enjoying celebrity," Flora added while waving to Lady Mayweather, who was watching the trio with a large group of noblewomen surrounding her. "Beenie, you've created a monster."

"If that's a monster, then this night will likely create an archdemon." Corbinian tossed back his champagne and winked at Samantha.

She could have snuck him away right then; they had been together half a dozen times since, and each time was more satisfying than the last. There was something extremely sensual about standing near him in a crowded room, looking into his eyes, and seeing that he was thinking of her intimately. It was their secret. The latest in a lifetime.

"That title might be reserved for another. I thought _this_ was going to make her head explode." Flora pointed to the locket around Samantha's neck. "Aside from not being invited to your little soirée where you made your…" She waved her hand around between them. "… _arrangement_ official."

Samantha laughed. "And thank the Maker for that! It was weird enough having twelve people in a room planning how many babies I'm going to have."

"If I remember correctly, they're all going to be boys," Corbinian added thoughtfully.

Flora nearly spit up her drink as she laughed, and Samantha looked to her plaintively. "You sure you won't consider Goran? I mean, look at how appealing the whole process is!"

Flora rolled her eyes, taking a long drink. "So now that you've got the details sorted, when's the announcement?"

Corbinian smiled mischievously and Samantha gave a playful shrug. "My father is probably courting offer sheets in his off-time. I'm quite the prize, you know. Not everyone can produce only sons."

Flora finally smiled at the pair, but then her eyes got caught over Samantha's shoulder. Standing near the Harimanns' table, her brother Ruxton and her father were chatting up a storm with, of all people, Goran Vael. The conversation seemed quite serious.

"Oh for the love of Andraste! Excuse me." Flora walked off in the direction of Benjamin Garrity, who was glowering at Arianna.

"Where is she going?" Corbinian asked, but Samantha just shrugged, alternating her attention between Flora and Lord Harimann.

When Flora arrived at Benjamin, she slipped her arm in his, laughing like he had just said the most amusing thing ever. Benjamin smiled back crookedly, a little perplexed at her sudden affection, but Samantha and Corbinian understood. They recognized the looks on Goran's and Lord Harimann's faces when they spotted Flora's gaiety with another. It was obvious that she was trying to show interest in someone else, to suggest she had no interest in Goran.

"Lucky for me you weren't so difficult." Corbinian ran the back of his forefinger down the back of Samantha's neck, sending shivers down her spine.

She whirled around, grinning happily. "Beenie! You naughty boy…"

And then the gong sounded, loud and echoing, which made everyone in the room start; all two hundred of them.

"Ladies and Gentleman…" Prince Vael's voice commanded the room's attention, and he always got whatever he commanded. "Thank you for coming. It is my honor to host the citizens of Starkhaven on this momentous occasion. It is also my honor to swear the son of my brother, my nephew, Marquess Corbinian Vael, into the service of our great city with the Oath of Starkhaven, which he will heed all his life, and is only breakable by death." All eyes turned back to Corbinian who was dutifully watching his uncle speak, with Samantha at his side, trying very hard to look perfunctory.

Corbinian turned to Samantha, lifting the back of her hand to his lips, and he winked at her before he left her there, casually making his way to the stage where the Prince of Starkhaven waited with the Grand Cleric, the First Enchanter, and the Knight Commander all lined up in a row. At their meeting, he shook his uncle's hand as the royal flag of Starkhaven dropped down from the ceiling behind them.

A hush came over the room when Corbinian dropped to his knee, and someone appeared behind the prince, handing him a sword with a sash of red silk wrapped around the hilt. The prince gripped the hilt with one hand and pulled the blade from the scabbard, its brilliance shimmering under the light. Obviously enhanced with magic – for magic is meant to serve man – the sword had been especially forged for Corbinian to be wielded in defense of Starkhaven. The prince flipped the sword around and brought it down into the stage, the point sticking easily into the wood directly between them, the prince standing above, and Corbinian kneeling below.

The prince said loudly, "You wish to swear the Oath of Starkhaven?"

"Yes, Your Highness," Corbinian said automatically.

"Then rise and make your pledge."

Corbinian stood up tall, the same height as the prince. He spoke carefully. "I hereby declare, on oath, that I absolutely and entirely give my life to the citizens and the city of Starkhaven; that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same; that I will bear arms on behalf of the city of Starkhaven when necessary and without reservation; that I will perform work of importance under Chantry direction when required by the law; that my life will not supersede the welfare of Starkhaven; that my death is the only release from this oath; and that I take this obligation freely without any mental reservation or purpose of evasion. May the Maker hear my oath and swear me to fealty."

"You are so sworn," the Grand Cleric said.

"You are so sworn," the Knight Commander said.

"You are so sworn," The First Enchanter said.

The prince extended his hand. "You are so sworn."

Corbinian smiled, wide and proud as he accepted the prince's hand. He then grasped the sword's hilt, yanking it from the stage and lifted it above his head. The crowd of nobles cheered, some even whistled and whooped their celebration and approval, and Samantha spied Corbinian's father, who was standing in the crowd swelling with pride.

Corbinian fastened the sword around his waist with the silk sash – it was his sword now – and then shook hands with all of Starkhaven's leaders – even the Knight Commander. After a wave to the crowd, he turned and jumped down from the stage, walking straight to Samantha who had moved to somewhere near the middle, but the orchestra didn't start playing and the people started to murmur as if they didn't understand what was happening next. Maybe it had been too long since the Oath was taken – was there another layer of ceremony? However, it quickly became clear just what was happening, because a small clearing formed around Corbinian and Samantha when he knelt down in front of her.

She suddenly felt a little lightheaded and her mind started to race, doubling over on itself, thinking of her parents and the Vaels and nothing but sons and for a moment she wondered if she would faint. But Corbinian had her hands which fit perfectly within his, and he was smiling when he reached into his pocket – his pockets again! – and then he pulled out a small box. Another small box. It was at that moment that everyone in the room seemed to understand what was coming next.

She should have seen this coming – there _was_ an arrangement made after all. For some reason, she had never expected it would be like this, in front of everyone, on this night which was supposed to be in celebration of Corbinian. Looking into his eyes, she now understood why he had chosen this night. It was clear that he was enjoying her reaction – and he was still a cheeky bastard.

"Samantha Mayweather," he started, opening up the box to reveal a ring, extravagant yet not gaudy: it was a band of diamonds, pristine and clear, a wheel of decadence that he slipped onto her finger. "The Chant of Light says that we are all the work of the Maker's hand, but when he made me, he made me for you, and when he made you, he made you for me."

If she had wondered what could upstage the Oath of Starkhaven, well, this was apparently it, because some of the noblewomen in the crowd gasped. One even fainted.

His eyes were smiling, as if he knew how this was playing out around the room. "It would be my honor if, on this night, you would agree to marry me."

It was one of those storybook moments, one the bards would sing about if they ever told this story, because the crowd fell utterly silent, standing on the tips of their toes, leaning into the intimacy, waiting for the answer that everyone knew was coming. When she gave her assent, quietly, and nodding for her voice couldn't sustain much in the gravity of the occassion, he rose up and kissed her on the cheek while the symphony added to the ambiance. The voices rose in appreciation and Samantha's father and mother were there in an instant, shaking hands and giving hugs, and then Corbinian's family took their turns and Samantha wished that Innley were there to celebrate as well.

The pair was joined for the rest of the evening, mostly dancing, as that was really the only time they weren't shaking hands or suffering hugs and kisses from their respective new families.

Corbinian pressed the opportunity for all he could, their bodies almost touching, his palms spread wide on her back, the tips of his fingers between the laces of her dress, brushing her bare skin.

"Have I told you that you look lovely?" he asked quietly.

"Wait until you see what else I am wearing…"

Corbinian smiled with an eyeful of secrets. "Well, aren't we both just full of surprises today."

"I think yours outdo mine." She was certain that he could feel her breathing.

"I'll be the judge of that. Might be determinant on the color."

She didn't hesitate when she said, "Red."

He didn't blink, but his fingers moved across her skin as he exhaled a whisper, "I want to do undo these laces."

She didn't blink either, running her fingers through the edge of his hairline. "Right here? With everyone watching?"

"There are other places than here."

Samantha sucked on her bottom lip. "And what would we do in these _other places_?"

He kept his expression controlled but his eyes glanced down the length of her dress, and she imagined he was envisioning what was beneath. "I would kiss your lips, and your neck, and then I would pull down your dress…" His voice lowered to a hush. "…and keep going…"

It was like they were making love right there on the dance floor as her body reacted to his sensual words and simple movements, and for just a moment, she had to close her eyes.

"Did you have someplace in mind?" she whispered.

"Follow my lead," he whispered back.

He kept his fingers on her back as he led her across the room to the bar where they both took a glass of wine and smiled at guests, though she was certain her face was flushed. She noted that his ears were flushed, but tried not to look or smile about it. He then excused himself, disappearing for a few moments before the symphony stopped and started again, this time playing a very popular song that inspired everyone to move to the dance floor in groups. The clapping started, hands in the air, and it was the perfect cover for the couple to find their escape.

Better than an Antivan Crow, Corbinian slipped them both out of the ballroom without notice, leading her through a series of hallways, each darker than the last, until they finally went through a single door into a darkened room – the spare library. No sooner had he softly closed the door and turned the lock, than he pressed Samantha back up against the bookcase.

His mouth came to hers and she removed his jacket from his shoulders, allowing it to fall to the floor at their feet as his hands worked their way to the silk laces on her back. She untied the sash around his waist, and his new sword sheathed inside the scabbard fell against the bookcase with a thud as the stale air slipped into her dress at her own laces loosening. Warm and welcome, his breath greeted her neck when the first boom sounded.

Neither seemed to hear it as she fumbled with his vest, and his hands moved around her waist. Sightlessly, she unclasped his belt as he lowered her dress to her ankles just before the second boom sounded, muffled and far away and she mumbled, "Are those fireworks?"

"Mmm," he hummed into her neck, one of his hands holding her steady and the other on her hip, a finger finding the space between her hipbone and her red underwear.

And that's when they heard the scream.

They stopped in an instant, a bit breathless and confused and he looked at her before they both caught the flashes out of the window. That was when the third boom sounded and they could see far off into the distance a great fireball erupt from the roof of the Starkhaven Circle.

Samantha was stunned into wide-eyed silence as they stared out of the window, their bodies together but the fires between them quickly doused by the flames that lick the sky.

After a moment, Corbinian whispered, "I have to go."

"What?" She turned to see a faraway look in his eyes.

"I have to go," he said a bit more resolutely. "I took the Oath. I have to go."

"But… Beenie…?" She suddenly felt very afraid as he pulled up his pants, refastening his belt buckle with deft hands. She gasped out the word _wait_ ; things were moving too quickly! He was going where? To the Circle? To the fireball? What was he walking into?

"Don't worry." He spun around to find his jacket, his mind clearly elsewhere now, shrugging the garment onto his shoulders, refastening his sword back onto his belt, but he turned back to see her still unclothed, frightened and overwhelmed against the bookcase. He lifted her dress back up over her body, retying her laces, and she shivered, glancing between him and the Circle through the window where a thick funnel of black smoke was now rising.

He gently took her shoulders. "Wait for me here. At the palace." But she was staring out the window, where the white Circle Tower looked black against a dark sky— "Hey!" He got her attention, forcing her to look directly into his eyes, even as her own brimmed with frightened tears. "I love you, Sammie."

"I love you, Beenie."

And then he was gone.

She didn't know what to do or where to go. She was alone in a small library, and she had to gather herself together to rejoin the revelers, who all had surely been alerted to the explosion at the Circle. _An explosion! Just like Adain!_ Fear stretched through her like new bones and she didn't want to be alone. Brushing the wet from her eyes and smoothing over her dress, she exited the hallway into a river of citizens who were rushing in every direction. She wanted her father, she wanted Flora – she would have settled for anyone familiar. Who she ran into was Vincent.

"Have you seen my parents?" Samantha asked him.

"No – have you seen mine?"

She shook her head.

"Do you know what's happening?"

"There was an explosion at the Circle," she said, and his expression changed to horror. "I saw a great fireball erupt from the spire."

"The Knight Commander ran out of the party faster than I've seen anyone ever run," he said. "The Grand Cleric and First Enchanter have been taken into protective custody."

"Maker's breath…!"

Flora nearly crashed into her then, breathless and relieved. "Sammie! Thank the Maker!"

They heard some yelling from the ballroom, and Flora tugged on Samantha's arm.

"Ladies! Gentleman!" The yelling continued and the trio squeezed their way through dozens of shoulders into the ballroom. An unfamiliar voice carried through. "The palace is open to you! The Chapel, the sitting room, the library – but you are not allowed to leave. There has been incident at the Circle, and while the guard and Templars get the situation under control, we ask that you stay here and stay calm!"

An incident? That great big fireball didn't look like an incident – it looked like a catastrophe. Murmurs of disapproval erupted throughout the crowd, through Samantha couldn't tell what they were saying.

"That's probably best," Vincent said nervously. "There's no safer place in Starkhaven than the royal palace."

"I need to find my father," Samantha said.

Flora gripped her arm. "We'll find him."

"We'll stay together." Samantha placed her hands in Flora's, and didn't let go.

"I'll escort you." Vincent reached for both of their hands, and they grasped his, grateful for his decisive presence.

Though the palace gates and doors were all locked and under strict guard, all of the lounges and bedrooms were open to anyone who should need to lie down, libraries and studies were available for those wish to distract themselves, and the Chapel was open to all who wanted to pray. That was where Vincent escorted Flora and Samantha, and the latter pair huddled up next to Samantha's father who had his arm around his wife. Lady Mayweather was praying. For some reason, being near her parents made Samantha feel somewhat better, but her nerves were still wrecked.

All she could think of was Corbinian, donning his shining golden armor, drawing his marvelous new sword, charging through the Circle's marble library, descending the spiral to his bloody and gruesome death at the hands of maleficarum. These thoughts were only interspersed with similar thoughts of Innley who would surely join the fight against any renegade mages. Maybe Innley and Corbinian would work together? Or maybe it wasn't renegade mages, maybe it was just a Harrowing gone horribly wrong. Or maybe it was one mage trying to escape, or a small group. Maybe it wasn't as bad as it seemed, but the random explosions that sent sonic waves across the city made everyone jump like some choreographed seizure and the longer everyone waited for word to come back that the Circle was under control, the worse Samantha's imagination got.

She had read about demons. She had read about corrupt mages. The books described them as vicious, devoid of emotion with no respect for life. Demons turned a mage into a heartless killing machine that moved without provocation and felt no remorse for what it did.

Brett and his wife, Ruxton, and the Lord and Lady Harimann entered the Chapel a little while later. The foursome looked quite stoic. Lord Harimann was trying to comfort his wife but her eyes were distant, and Samantha imagined that she was in shock, like so many others. She turned a set of eyes to the Mayweathers, finding Flora in relief.

"Be right back," Flora whispered, rising to greet her family.

More people came and went, prayers were whispered, candles were lit, and weeping women were removed and then returned. The Luxleys came into the Chapel at some point, surveying the faces probably looking for Helena, and from across the room Samantha and Flora exchanged a nervous glance.

At one point, Arianna sat down in the pew next to Samantha, reaching for her hand in fear.

"Why did I wear this?" Arianna whispered. That dress stuck to her body leaving little to the imagination. "I can barely move."

Samantha gripped her friend's hand. "Your dress is very… avant-garde."

Arianna gave an anxious laugh. "Everyone in Orlais is wearing this!" She looked like she might cry, and as she shifted her legs to cross one over the other, the slit up the side of the dress to her thigh was not only risqué, but downright shameless.

"I'm not sure if that trend will catch on here in Starkhaven."

"I wore it for Benji," she admitted. " _Scemo_ plays with me for two years, and I wanted him to see what he was missing."

Ah! So that's why she was dressed like a witch – she was enchanting young Benjamin with jealousy. Such were the games of the daughters and sons of Starkhaven's upper class. Samantha was glad she didn't have to play, for Corbinian's warmth had never dimmed. Like Sebastian, many thought him a scoundrel like all the rest, but his affection for Samantha since his return from Nevarra City had been unwavering, and it seemed as if everyone saw it. When it came to royalty and relationships, most agreed that when a Vael pledged his heart to someone, that someone was a Vael.

"I can't sit here," Arianna whispered restlessly, rising from the pew and exiting the Chapel in haste.

Samantha's parents left the chapel; her mother apparently thought it was her duty to comfort the women of Starkhaven, like the women of the royal family had been doing. The Duchess was patting Lord Kendall's hand, and he seemed confused but relaxed. A man in a long robe with the royal seal of Starkhaven was at his side, listening to his heart through a tube. Samantha tried to imagine what it was like to be old, to live long enough to see everyone she loved die.

Not wanting to be alone, she moved to her best friend, Flora, who gripped Samantha's hand tight. "I should be out there," Flora whispered. "I could help."

"They are mages!" Samantha was truly afraid; she had never felt this kind of fear before and all those stories of Adain that her father had told her about were bubbling on the surface of her memory. "Arrows cannot fight magic."

"Arrows can kill mages and demons just like any other."

"But…" This made no sense to Samantha. Flora was a noble's daughter. Noble's daughters did not don armor and join the fighting unless they reject their family's wealth and nobility and opted instead to join the Royal Army or become Templars or something. And Flora had always made her archery sound like a hobby – not a skill that she would employ to kill people.

"Don't be so old fashioned, Sammie." Flora scolded in a hushed voice. "During the war with the Qunari, nobles and peasants alike took up arms. During the second Blight—"

"Yes, yes, yes!" Samantha hissed; she knew all of this. "But this isn't a Blight and we're not being invaded by murderous heretical giants! These are mages! You may be accustomed to fighting people, but it takes an altogether different kind of method to fight against magic."

Flora thought about that. "Perhaps you're right. Perhaps I need to work on that."

Flora's stubbornness reared itself, and if Samantha thought her friend was in a bad mood before, she was now disagreeable to a fault. Samantha couldn't believe that Flora was considering this life, but there was no more time to discuss it as Lady Luxley burst into the room, weeping hysterically. Black streaks of makeup ran from her eyes down her cheeks as she collapsed into a pew, her shoulders shaking powerfully. Two women rushed to her side: Lady Tyler, Vincent's mother, and Lady Mayweather. Flora and Samantha sat by helplessly watching her mother whisper words of comfort. When she looked up and saw her daughter, she headed over.

"They found Helena inside the Circle," she whispered gently and Samantha's limbs went limp, feeling her friend grip her hands. "She's gone, darling."

Lady Luxley wailed, cutting into the silence that now seemed louder than her cries of sorrow. Helena… was dead? But before that news could be absorbed, Arianna Marziano burst back into the room.

" _E' finita_!" she announced through thick Antivan tears of joy before she turned and shimmied down the royal hallway, calling out as she went, " _E' finita_!"

_It's over?_

Samantha's mother let her go as she knelt by Lady Luxley, attending to her presupposed civic duty. Samantha and Flora numbly left the Chapel and into a hastening tide of people, a mass of bodies with some kind of collective consciousness that had them moving towards the front doors of the palace, leading into the courtyard protected by those impenetrable steel gates, which were now open.

The Lords and Ladies of Starkhaven were going home. Many were going to see about those smaller children who were too young to go to the party and had been left behind. Others were concerned about the status of their estates and whether their homes were still standing. Some were heading to the chantry to pray. Most were just exhausted.

There was a group returning as hers was exiting the palace. It was like a school of fish meeting another as the people weaved together in opposition. The men returning were members of the Royal Army, captains and lieutenants most likely returning to report to the prince of Starkhaven instead of heading back to the barracks. Some families that had stayed behind were asking about children that they had once known that had been sent to the Circle, but Samantha's parents wouldn't do that. She knew she would have to discover Innley's fate on her own.

She spotted the First Enchanter, Raddick, and the Grand Cleric, Francesca, both escorted by Templars and likely heading to the Circle to evaluate the damage. But Samantha was terrified as each haggard face that passed was not Corbinian's.

"Maybe he's already inside," Flora suggested hopefully, but they both knew he was not.

The air was thick was smoke, even this far away from the Circle, and with that smoke brought horrible odors: burnt wood, dirt, dust from stone, blood, and charred meat. She stopped in the center of the courtyard as the crowd thinned. Flora gripped her hand as they stood together, the dread settling into her empty stomach as the moments passed and now it was just a few men who were trickling through the gate.

Her knees began to wobble, and she fleetingly entertained the nightmare that he would never return, and she would stand there in the smoky clearing waiting forever. She would look out windows pensively, she would dream of him, she would weep terribly – a life without him, terrifying and horrible... but that was when he limped through the gate.

He was covered nearly head-to-foot in soot. His face was caked in it, his hair stuck up in damp directions, and yet those marvelous blue eyes shone out from somewhere underneath like beacons of light. His scratched-up golden armor was nearly black as well, and his helmet was missing. She let out a cry of distress, letting Flora go as she ran to him, consumed with relief, fear, and hope, and when he saw her, he stopped in his tracks and let her crash into him, the soot and the dirt transferred to her as he wrapped his armored arms around her, sinking into her embrace as if he had dragged himself back from that tower for this moment alone.

"I thought I'd lost you," she whispered.

"It'll take more than that to kill me." He sounded exhausted and his eyes were fighting to stay open.

"Are you injured?" She pulled back running her hands over his blackened armor creating long streaks in the muck, which now covered her golden dress as well.

"No," he said breathlessly, but then he winced, dropping to a knee. "Well, not terribly."

" _We need a healer_!" Flora shouted as loudly as she could, scampering off to find a mage.

Samantha didn't care if it was true or not, and barely a moment passed before a man in a robe appeared, helping Corbinian out of his breastplate. He winced again when he had to lift his arms up. There was a blackened patch on his tunic against the right side around his ribs, and when cut back revealed a horrible burn. To Samantha, it looked like he had been branded with unreadable iron.

"Oooh." Corbinian got a look at it for the first time and he almost laughed. "That's hideous."

"What happened?" Samantha knelt down beside him.

"Looks like a fireball. You're lucky," the man in the robe said as he laid his hands a few inches away from the wound, and they started to glow blue.

_Magic!_ Samantha wanted to scream at this now-real and terrifying enemy, thinking maybe the mage was harming him but, after a second, she realized that he was doing just the opposite, because Corbinian let out a moan of relief, his arm suddenly heavy across Samantha's shoulders. And then Corbinian did something somewhat shocking if not for the fact that she was so terribly relieved he was alive: he turned and kissed her, right on the lips.

They didn't notice the man in the robe walk away, nor if Flora had returned, because Corbinian and Samantha became the only people in the war-torn world, with the dirt beneath their knees, the smell of death in the air, and the Maker's stars twinkling through the wind-strewn smoke, high in the sky.


	12. 9:27 Dragon, Autumn

**9:27 Dragon, Autumn**

"Isolationism harms us all," Grand Cleric Francesca's sermon began."These mages believe that they would function better as a collective living on their own: ungoverned, unattended, the doorway to the Fade unguarded. Apostates who study magic without regulation."

In the months that followed, details began to emerge about what had happened at the Circle. Those responsible were believed to be a small group of mages belonging to one of the larger fraternities: the Isolationists. For those outside the tower, blame seemed easy to assign.

The Grand Cleric continued: "Starkhaven has seen firsthand the ravages of ungoverned magic. It wasn't that long ago that our city suffered at the hands of a rogue apostate." She took a breath and grandly announced: "Adain believed in Isolationism."

Once Samantha heard his name, she knew exactly how the offending mages would be treated. Adain had left a lasting impression on the Circle, the Chantry, and the citizens of the city. No mage that seemed even remotely like him was going to be given any kind of freedom, least of all the kind that might allow for further subversion against the establishment.

"Mages cannot govern themselves." Francesca’s voice carried through the room, to the high ceilings, to the pillars, and to the towering statue of Andraste that stood guardian behind her. "We speak of Tevinter too often, but what has happened there will happen here if we stand by and do nothing to safeguard the mages from themselves."

Corbinian and Samantha sat together at service now, with their families at either side. This was customary in Starkhaven, now that their connection had been made public. Despite the tragedy that night, their engagement had been celebrated as the event of the season. There were some who said that not even a Circle rebellion could prevent Samantha and Corbinian from getting married, as though their joining was the Maker's will.

Scheduling the wedding was one long compromise. Samantha's mother hated the autumn and Corbinian's mother hated the summer. Spring was awfully traditional, everyone agreed, but winter was too cold, and so the wedding was set for forty-five days after the spring equinox in 9:31 Dragon – a three-year engagement. Such long engagements were common, if not encouraged. Traditionally, the longer the engagement the happier the marriage, but, truthfully, the people of Starkhaven just liked to celebrate, and Samantha would have many parties thrown in her honor by dozens of families over the next three years.

She just wished Innley could be part of it.

"I understand that many of us know someone in the Circle." Francesca's voice was gentle. "A friend. A daughter.  A father. But we must understand _what they are_. A child who has been bewitched could easily become an assassin, whether she intends to kill or not. The mages are good men and women, more often than not honorable and kind. They don't _want_ to harm anyone. It's the demons from the Fade that reach across the Veil and sink their claws deep even as we wrap our arms around them in camaraderie. We must never let go, lest they be taken from us."

That sort of argument resonated with the nobles of Starkhaven, even though most didn't personally know any mages, had learned everything they knew about magic and the Fade from the Chantry, and never asked questions. Samantha wondered if they were willfully ignorant or just obtuse.

Whatever it was, it seemed to clear to Samantha and Corbinian that the Chantry was trying to keep the people from knowing just what happened that night. Perhaps it was too much like what happened with Adain, and the Chantry didn't want to scare the populace. Or worse, reveal they didn't have control.

Samantha thought of her brother often, for she no longer had the opportunity to see him. The Circle was on lockdown, and all contact was strictly forbidden. Sers Traven and Langley, who had both been so amenable before, were now hardened jailors, convinced that they had committed a grave sin against the Maker for allowing Corbinian and Samantha access to the Circle in the first place. They wouldn't admit to it, but Corbinian had discovered that Innley's fraternity was involved in whatever had happened – the details were closely guarded secrets. Corbinian never saw him that night in the Circle Tower, either. Was he back in the dungeons? Had he helped fight for the Circle or the rebellion? Was he still Innley or had he become maleficar?

Francesca turned her eyes downward to the front pews. "The Knight Commander's investigation into that night is still ongoing, but we know that it was only a small group of mages that attempted escape. Now, I understand many of you are anxious, confused, and perhaps afraid. There is no cause for alarm. We are taking every precaution and the Circle of Magi is cooperating – they wish for the culprits to be brought to justice. The Circle is their home."

Details of the explosion had been given only during service and always in the form of an argument such as this one. While there was no disputing the logic – magic _was_ dangerous – the simple fact that the Circle was still locked down after four months was enough to raise suspicion. Worse than that were the sparse details about Helena's death. She had told Flora in private that she was dating a Templar, but she never gave a name nor did she elaborate on his looks or his family. Such behavior was uncommon, and the fact that she never provided this information suggested that perhaps she was lying. Helena had never been known for her skill at deception, having never even convinced anyone that she was interested in Vincent Tyler.

"But do not fret," Francesca said soothingly. "For the Maker's light will always illuminate the way to our recovery. We must show him that we are _one_ people. Nobles, commoners, mages, Templars – we are in this together, and we will get through this together."

There was a collective sigh of relaxation as everyone seemed comforted by Francesca's words, and Samantha had to admit that she was quite reassuring. But Grand Clerics were like that.

Corbinian rose once the singing was over, stretching his neck. "Well, one lecture down. About a billion to go."

"If not for the service, service days would be wonderful." Samantha watched the Grand Cleric greet her mother with a soft smile, and she tugged on Corbinian's sleeve. "Now might be our chance…"

Corbinian watched his father shake hands with the Knight Commander. "Let's get out of here."

Service days were the only days when she got to be with Corbinian alone for any length of time. During the week, she was attending to her studies, visiting with nobles around town, watching Flora ride, or watching Corbinian practice. It had taken less than a month before he was practicing at full speed with his new sword, which he had named _One-Cut,_ "because that's all it takes," he had said cockily. The priests had called him a fast healer, but Samantha figured it was just Corbinian; back in the saddle no matter how far the fall.

They spotted a group heading through the massive Chantry doors, and they slipped into the crowd hoping for once to blend in and go unnoticed as they made their escape, but it didn't work. Someone recognized Corbinian, and the man ushered himself so far out of the way that one might assume the marquess had the plague. Samantha knew the man was trying to be cordial, but did he have to be so flamboyant about it?

"Make way!" The man called. "Make way for the Marquess!"

This sort of behavior had become commonplace since Corbinian had taken the Oath, and while Samantha knew that many people treated royalty this way, she wasn't used to it and wasn't sure if she ever would be. Arianna thought it hysterical. She liked to toy with people about it, making grand statements about what Samantha liked, no matter if it were true, just to see how people would react. Truthfully, Samantha felt like a thing sometimes, shuffled around, presented here, showed off there, rarely asked to speak but always expected to be gracious.

"Thank you, my good man." Corbinian smiled famously.

"Takin' the lovely betrothed on a walk, ser?" The man asked genially.

"Not today; I figure I should try to knock her up. I hear she gives nothing but sons! Good day to you!"

A perplexed expression crossed the man's face and several others nearby paused; the lot of them grouped together to whisper about what they thought they had just heard, and if they had actually heard it.

Samantha was too shocked to laugh as he pulled her along. "I can't _believe_ you just said that."

"Oh, you really wanted to go for a walk, then?"

"Cad!" She chuckled, but a survey of their path led her to believe they weren't heading to the royal palace. She was about to ask where they were going until he turned them onto a very familiar street. "Are we going to my estate?"

"We never visit your gardens," he replied. "We always go to mine, which are now open to the public."

He emphasized that last bit, and she grinned to herself; he wished for privacy, and funnily enough, they would find it at her estate. Her parents wouldn't be home for hours, visiting the Vaels, the other nobles, discussing the upcoming nuptials and appropriate gifts – even though the wedding was so far into the future, it felt like another Age.

One really nice thing about being engaged to a Vael was that the guards didn't ask too many questions, and the pair they passed on the way to her estate just nodded and smiled. With the mess at the Circle, there was also a greater Templar presence around town. The guards in Granite Circle were pleasant, but Samantha had heard rumors about their behavior in the Elven Alienage and Hyrian's Point, the poorest part of Starkhaven so named for the prince whose generous donations to the Chantry had expanded social services to the poor.

Once they arrived to her estate, they breezed through the front doors, the servants scurrying after the Marquess in haste, offering him anything and everything for they were so sorry they hadn't anticipated his visit! He tried to placate their worry, but they were inconsolable as they tittered nervously, finally calming when Samantha promised not to tell anyone if they didn't.

Breaking back into autumn's early afternoon, the Mayweather Estate's gardens were falling into a green death, for the flowers had withered away months ago. Walking through the dying shrubs, it felt good to finally be alone, and Corbinian reached playfully down to her ankles, snapping off her shoes and waving them over his head. She laughed, giving chase through the gardens.

They had perfected the art of finding privacy, a luxury for them both. But on this sunny afternoon, they headed to the very edge of the gardens where a short shrub-like tree tore violently upwards through the earth. It was just starting to lose its leaves.

"My mother hates this," Samantha said of the tree.

"I can smell why…" Corbinian pinched his nose. The tree gave off a most displeasing odor that closely resembled rotting nuts.

Samantha pulled a leaf from a branch; the long scissor-like blade was stiff as card. "It's a Tree of Heaven. Also known, rather ironically, as a _demon's tree_."

" _This_ is a demon's tree?" He cocked his head to the side. "Isn't it supposed to be taller?"

"It would be if my mother didn't send servants out three times a year to destroy it." Samantha tossed the leaf to the ground, looking back to the tree in admiration. "But always it comes back, more wild than ever."

Corbinian closed his eyes briefly, and took a step back from the shrub. "Aside from the… delightful smell… why do they call it a demon's tree?"

She gestured to the nearby plant-life, of which there was none. "Because it will kill anything in its way to grow. It taints everything it touches with a foul stench, and if you try to cut it back, it will grow three branches for every one you shear."

"Aptly named."

Samantha lowered herself to the grass, stretching through the branches and pulling them aside to see the fence to the Tylers’ estate, a fine wood turned grey with rain and age. Reaching down further, she brushed away the dirt to reveal her name crudely carved into the fence, and below that, Innley's.

Corbinian smiled at the etchings.

Samantha said, "Sometimes, I wonder if she'll ever rid the garden of it and see Innley's name there…"

"What would she do?"

"Probably pull up the fence. Burn the wood. Just like Ser Traven tore up the letter that I wrote to my brother." Samantha brushed the dirt from her hands, standing back up with a huff. "Right in front of me, too!"

"Bastard," Corbinian answered quickly, adding wryly: "Want me to have him executed?"

"A kind offer, but that wouldn’t solve the problem."

"Langley and Traven won't let me see him either. They claim he's there, though." And then added, for the fiftieth time that year, "I wish I would have found him in there."

Samantha scowled in frustration. "I hope they're wrong about my brother. And I hope they live long enough to see it. And I hope we get to be there when they learn how wrong they are."

"No wishing for their swords to rust? Their milk to turn sour? What about the sweating sickness?"

"Those are kind of harsh, Beenie."

He lifted his palms up, as if weighing the options. "Being wrong. Sweating sickness… it's a tough call for me."

She chuckled softly, leading him away from the stinky tree, and into a sunny patch of cool grass where they both relaxed, closing their eyes in the Maker's bright light. Samantha asked, "Why do the mages hate the Circle? Sure, it's kind of dreary, but is it really that bad?"

"It's only bad for those mages who fight it." He shook his head. "I know the First Enchanter and Grand Cleric might be willing to overlook anything Innley was involved in, because he's young and impressionable, but the Knight Commander is caustic. I have no idea what he thinks."

Corbinian had finally met the Knight Commander, introduced as the Marquess and a lieutenant in his full Royal Army regalia. They had met with the Captain of the Army and the Knight Captains of the Templar Order to discuss Starkhaven security, which seemed to be another word of prowling the streets and accosting people.

She gazed into the cloudless sky, a pale blue expanse without a beginning or an end. "I hope his friends haven't poisoned Innley. What was his name? You know, the older man who Innley named his mentor?"

"Decimus."

"Right. He seemed creepy."

"Was it the beard, the unkempt hair, or that demented look in his eye?" He joked. "For me, it was the dress, but they all wear dresses so it's hard to tell."

She shifted against his shoulder; the immense blue of the cloudless and vast unknowable sky mimicked her feelings about Innley and his future. "Maybe this is just a phase or something."

"I'm just glad they locked that Decimus guy up."

"I worry about that, though," She said thoughtfully. "Historically, when someone is locked up, it has created stronger feelings of sedition. If he ever gets out—"

"He won't." He seemed so certain.

"But if he does—"

"Then they'll kill him or make him Tranquil," he said frankly.

Samantha shuddered. "They could make Innley tranquil. We would never know."

His silence suggested that he hadn't considered that idea until that very moment. They both knew the Rite of Tranquility was a necessary evil, to protect mages who could not protect themselves from the demons of the Fade. It was a kindness, everyone said so, but to imagine Innley that way, automatic and without feeling… It seemed wrong.

A cicada began to chirp at regular intervals nearby, arresting the pair from their thoughts.

Corbinian said, "I'll find out, okay? Don't think about it. There's nothing either of us can do right now, so there's no point in making ourselves sick with worry."

She took a breath. "Okay."

He stretched his arms out, lacing his fingers behind his head as he reclined in the grass. "Have you spoken to Flora?"

"No." She angled her head to look over at him. "Why?"

Corbinian scrunched his nose. "I don't know. I thought I heard my uncle say something about her mother."

Samantha remembered her conversation with Flora at Corbinian's name day celebration, and how troubled her friend seemed at her mother's near-obsessive attention on Goran Vael. If the prince had mentioned Lady Johane… Her nerves turned through her stomach like a spawn of butterflies, and she knew that nothing good could come from the unwanted attention of the prince.

She also remembered her promise not to say a word about Flora's feelings on Goran to Corbinian, who likely already knew.

"If Flora's mother has drawn the ire of the prince, she would tell me," Samantha stated with confidence, but then remembered how closely guarded all of her friend's secrets were.

He tilted in chin down, seemingly amused. "I hope you're right and that it's nothing. But do tell her that it doesn't help when her mother says subversive things about the prince at parties."

Samantha cracked a smile. "You mean that's not allowed?"

"Only the princess gets to say such things," he joked. "Everyone else gets exiled as a matter of policy."

"That would explain why everyone in Starkhaven loves him so!" She turned over and poked her finger in his ear, adding sarcastically, "When do you think he'll send her away? After the Harvest Festival, I hope, because it's too challenging to replace the decorating committee members this late in the season."

"I don't know." Corbinian playfully batted her fingers away. "They don't exile Haveners on a whim."

"Like they did with Sebastian?" She asked jovially.

"Yeah, but he could've…"

"Could've what?" Samantha lifted herself up, curious about how the conversation had suddenly turned serious. "Were you there when they exiled him? You said you saw him only briefly."

But Corbinian just blinked, as though she had caught him completely off guard, and he stumbled a little over his words. "I… It's hard to remember."

Samantha watched him carefully. "You've actually never talked about that night."

"Well, it's not a pleasant memory, my love." He smiled cheekily. "They were going to send me away, and then I'd never get a chance to do this…" He rolled over to her, burying his face into her neck and she shrieked in surprise.

"You're so secretive!"

"It's part of my charm." He leaned back, smiling that Vael smile. "Hey, I want to show you something."

"No, no, no, you're changing the sub—"

"Of course I am!" He laughed. "Trust me, Sammie. There's nothing interesting about exile. You go in front of the prince, you talk about what you did, and he decides. It's just that simple."

She made a face, certain that there was more to the story, but he just chuckled.

"Come on." He helped her up. "I really do want to show you something."

The sun was just arcing away from its zenith as he led her through from her gardens and onto the granite path, which felt pleasantly warm underneath her bare feet. The sunshine was still bright for the time of year, and the afternoon air had turned thick with autumn pollen as the flowers shed their final offering.

She had no idea where they going until they passed under the massive steel gates of the Royal Palace and started sneaking through the hallways, trying to remain unseen with Corbinian peeking around every corner.

"You have to talk the prince out of exiling you?" Samantha whispered, not wanting to let the matter go.

"That was my strategy," he whispered back to her. "I wasn't going to talk him _into_ it."

"What did Sebastian say?"

"The wrong things."

He turned the corner, and that was when she realized that they were entering the living quarters of his parents’ wing of the Royal Palace. If he had intended to derail the conversation, it was an excellent maneuver to bring her here, because she was struck by the strangeness of this place. It took her a moment to understand why.

It was lived in. Private and personal with so many gifts from so many different people from so many different places. The corners of the furniture weren't as sharp, the rugs had indentations where feet had been, and the tapestries were half-pulled back, as though someone had just been in these rooms, looking out the windows. But most of all, it was the portraits that caught Samantha’s attention.

Those that lined the walls in the hallway downstairs were nothing compared to the portraits that lined the walls of this wing. Swaths of brilliant color across canvas, velvet, parchment; details piled upon details, the paintings stretched on and on and all of them were of members of the royal family. Samantha couldn't help but linger as long as possible on the portraits of Corbinian. _Andraste in the heavens!_ The artists seemed to focus on capturing his eyes so absolutely that they were always the focus of each picture. Some portraits caught them with perfect realism while the rest of paintings were abstract or soft or crazy. They were so beautiful and Samantha couldn't help reaching out and touching some of them.

Corbinian just smiled at her, tugging on her hand and whispering for her follow.

When they rounded another corner, she realized that they were heading to his chambers. She had never questioned it, but she had never, not once, been inside his room. He had been to her room dozens of times and she had seen nearly every wing of the Royal Palace. Except this one. Never mind that he had seen her room on more occasions than she could count, but it would be improper on a scale of grand magnitude if she were caught in his room.

When they finally reached his chambers, she was a little surprised. The main color of his room was light blue. The comforter thrown across his bed was light blue, his walls were half-painted in this color and another darker blue, the rug in the center was a dark blue on top of what looked to be pine flooring. It was airy and comfortable, with light-colored wooden furniture, an armor stand, his sword mounted on the wall, and, of all things, a lute standing upright next to his bureau. There were so many questions and so she started with the most obvious.

"Blue…?" She turned her head to see him leaning against his bedroom door, which he had closed and latched.

"Blue." He smiled at her and she remembered their first night together in her room. The walls were the exact color of her underwear that night.

"When did you have this painted?"

"Oh… you know."

She blushed ridiculously. That he would paint his entire room in this color after that night, as if every time he walked into his room, every time he looked at the color of the walls, that he might think of that night and of her… it was so…

"I know, I know. It's so romantic."

"I was thinking it was… erotic."

He lifted an eyebrow but didn't move from the door. "Is that right? You know, I could paint another room…"

Her cheeks puffed out in a smile. "What's that over there?" She pointed to the lute.

"My new weapon of choice," he answered quickly, walking across the room to pick it up, sitting down in the chair next to it, but when he began to strum it was quite clear that he possessed a talent.

Samantha leaned up against one of the four bedpost to watch him play, and it was beautiful, the way his hand moved up and down the neck, the way his fingers plucked at the strings, the melodies and harmonies floating up and filling the air with emotion and dream and idea and for a moment, she was so moved that her eyes felt like they were floating and she forgot where she was and who she was with and was so deeply affected by so much, least of all that there were still things he could do and say that surprised her. Even after all this time.

When he stopped playing and looked up, his expression changed. "What's wrong?"

She shook her head, a little embarrassed. "Your weapon is quite effective."

He chuckled as he set the lute back down. "Had I known it would work, I would have tried that first before all that talking."

"Yes. All that talking was really obnoxious." She brushed her wet cheeks dry.

"Being obnoxious is part of the strategy." He stood up, sliding his hands into his pockets. "Do you like my room?"

His room now seemed more like home than her own room and she wanted to stay here. She wanted to live here, to be here with him every night and every day and so she said, "I want to sleep with you."

"Wow… this worked out better than I thought."

She laughed without being able to help it. "Beenie. _Sleep_. We've been together many times, but never fallen asleep."

"Well, that's an easy request." He moved around to the bed and pulled down the covers, kicking off his boots and unbuttoning his shirt, but she hadn't moved, nervous about getting caught in their underclothes. "Pretend sleep. Just for a short time before it's totally dark out and then I'll take you home. Here, I'll open the curtains so we can see when the sun sets."

She smiled, unbuttoning her dress. "Okay."

Once divested of their clothing, all that was left was their smallclothes and underwear, of which hers were far more intricate. They were blue and Corbinian smiled that they were the same color as the room, though they were not the same set she’d worn that first night. He held the covers open for her as she slid in next to him and he brought them down around them both, pulling her up close and resting his head on the pillow.

They were silent as they lay there, with one of his arms under her head and the other draped across her stomach and she pushed herself back up against him, feeling the length of his body against hers; quite longer and infinitely warmer.

"What is it with you?" she asked. "You're so warm. All the time."

"It's my wild passionate feelings for you, Sammie," he said quietly into her ear.

"Tell me more about these wild passionate feelings."

"Shh, I'm sleeping."

And it was a new experience for them both: stillness with tenderness, with their hands upon each other and their bodies so close, becoming something entirely new. Something more. And as the late afternoon sunshine stained the room gold, a memory formed with so many others, but it was here in this room which was just his room, and in this bed which was just his bed which would continue to smell like her long after she had gotten up, long after he had walked her home and long after he had returned to that bed that very night to go to sleep alone.


	13. 9:28 Dragon, Winter

**9:28 Dragon, Winter**

The South Gate of the Starkhaven Circle had a bronze plaque affixed to its white stone walls that read, _If I give you my hands and they burst into flame, do not jump, for the fear is what shall burn you._

Corbinian had been staring at it for five minutes as Ser Shay stood idly by, gazing up at him. She was short for a Templar, wide in the shoulders and the waist, and her chin slanted upwards as if a punch to the jaw had set her face. Samantha couldn't help but stare at the gap between her two front teeth when she spoke.

"Not long now," Ser Shay said for the fourth time. By her accent, she was probably Starkhaven-born.

Corbinian gestured to the plaque. "Do you know what that means?"

She gazed at him a moment longer before pivoting on the balls of her feet to see. "Oh, that. Some First Enchanter said that fifty years ago. They put up plaques all over. If you're clever, you can find them."

"Yes, I know. My brother and I used to have a game going where we would write down all the quotes we found. We were up to eleven, I think."

"Was Goran good at it?" Samantha asked.

"Not him. My other brother." It wasn't the answer she expected, but Corbinian didn't look away from the tablet. "That particular plaque was affixed late in the Blessed Age, after a dragon, thought to have been extinct for hundreds of years, burned Branian's Lanes to the ground. It is said that First Enchanter Halden reached out his hand to Branian, to save him from the fires, but that Branian was more scared of the mage than the dragon. And so he burned by the dragon's flame."

Branian's Lanes was the largest farmstead in the Free Marches. Technically a part of Starkhaven and sitting right on the banks of the Minanter, the entirety of Branian's crops had been torched. The dragons had ravaged the river regions of the Marches for a better part of a decade until they were driven out, some said into the northern swamps that sat between Starkhaven and Antiva. The Lanes had taken two decades to restore, and Branian's grandchildren now ran the farm, producing the best peaches in the Free Marches.

"I've never heard that story," Shay said.

"I have," Samantha said. "It was the same dragons that ushered in the Dragon Age."

Corbinian nodded, looking up to an overcast and grey sky. "Urzara be damned, for those dragons made her a fool."

Antivan legends were wildly popular as children's stories in Starkhaven. The swamps, those dragons, witches of the wilds, Avvar, all sorts of mad tales, and Samantha and Corbinian had been taught them all, especially the tale of Urzara. Back in the Storm Age, Urzara was believed to be the child of an old god. She had been protected by a cult who held that she would ascend to the Maker's throne, and in preparation, decided to burn Chantries from one side of the Minanter to the other, forcing terrified victims to bow down to some poorly carved stone replica of the beast. Eventually, the dragon retreated to her cave in the mountain range to the north, The Hundred Pillars. Adventurers, Oath-takers, Templars, warriors, and sellswords alike banded together to storm those mountains. When Urzara fell, many cultists threw themselves in the Minanter River in despair at losing their one true god.

Many natives claimed that the river was darker than it used to be, the riverbed beneath stained by the flow of blood. Some even said that they could still hear the whispers of the dead in the water.

Shay stared up at Corbinian while he wasn't watching her, and Samantha bit her lip to hide her smile. Let this Templar look, she thought; Corbinian was beautiful, there was no denying that.

Shay asked, "So, what's the plaque mean?"

"That's what Halden said to the Templars after Branian died. He meant that the only reason to fear a mage, is if the mage fears you."

Shay stood proud. "Not all mages are bad."

Corbinian looked back to her. "No. Not all. And one doesn't have to be a mage to be bad."

She clucked her laughter. "No, no, Your Excellency. You're quite right. I know some bad apples, but Andraste guide them."

"Andraste guide them."

"Would that the Knight Commander agreed," Samantha added absentmindedly.

Shay seemed startled, but Corbinian let out a breath of laughter so suddenly, not even he appeared to have expected it.

"Shouldn't talk badly about him, messere," Shay warned Samantha. "Not with a Templar standing by."

"Oh… I would wager you don't mind." Corbinian gave her a curious look, and she shifted uneasily.

"Shouldn't be too long." Shay said again.

They were there to see Innley, of course. By chance alone during joint training exercises with the Starkhaven Royal Army and the Templars, Corbinian had met Shay and quickly wrapped her around his charming finger. It was painfully obvious that she was rarely shown the attentions of men. While he had yet to tell Samantha how this Templar was able to do what no other had done, she wasn't going to ask too many questions. Not yet.

The Circle wasn't open to the public but the gardens were, and Corbinian had convinced Shay to arrange for Innley to have his duties altered to include helping the Tranquil trim the Circle's sculptured hedges. Samantha's brother had never shown an aptitude for gardening, so she imagined he would be pleasantly surprised to find they had so cleverly arranged for a visit.

But when the lock clinked and the doors swung wide, her brother did not appear to appreciate her appearance. In grey robes with no distinct markings, Innley stood between one Templar and a Tranquil mage. The Templar had his black blade drawn, and he gripped her brother's arm tightly, enjoying every moment. It was Ser Langley.

Samantha had never seen a mage who had gone through the Rite of Tranquility before, and the way he looked at her, or rather the way he looked _through_ her, made her skin prickle. He looked young. Maybe Innley's age.

A roll of thunder echoed from above ominously, and Samantha wondered if the Maker was giving her a sign or if she just saw signs wherever she went. Regardless, she could have guessed what warning He was giving, for the Tranquil looked dazed, his eyes unfocused. Ser Langley sneered at Innley, her beautiful brother, who was scowling at her.

"So _you_ brought me out here," he grumbled.

The tranquil mage walked passed them without a word, heading through the gardens and disappearing behind a shrub.

Samantha and Corbinian exchanged glances. She drew a deep breath before she looked at her brother. "Of course I did. I came to see you! How are you?"

Innley's eyes were closed doors, glowering beneath his thick brows. "What do you want?"

"What do you mean? I wanted to see you."

"Have a good look, then."

She paused a moment in confusion before she asked, "Are you well?"

"Really?" It wasn't a question, more like an exclamation of disbelief.

She hadn't seen him in almost a year and that was his reaction? Excuses danced on her tongue: he was angry, he was lonely, he envied her freedom, he missed his friends – his friends! Samantha wondered if…  "Did you hear about Helena?"

Innley's jaw clenched but he said nothing, only continuing to glower as if he were just waiting for the whole meeting to end.

Corbinian was watching Innley carefully. "I was here at the Circle that night. I looked for you…"

Innley looked away.

"I'm so sorry about Helena. She never told anyone she was coming here." Samantha reached for his hand but he pulled away. "We do have good news. Corbinian and I are engaged to be married!" She smiled weakly at her brother but he wasn't smiling. He seemed offended.

"You know, mages aren't allowed to marry. Have children. Have families."

She had never really considered those things for Innley – not since he was sent to the Circle – but she did remember those restrictions from her studies. Magic wasn't something anyone would wish on a child. "Yes, actually… I did know that. Your curse might be—"

" _My what_?!"

" _Magic_ , Innley." Corbinian cut in forcefully, keeping his voice flat. "Your curse is _magic_."

"It is a gift." Innley narrowed his eyes at the pair of them. "The Maker made me this way. You think he made me flawed and you perfect? Is that what you're saying?"

"That's not what we're saying," Corbinian said evenly. "But the Maker didn't intend for the doorway to the Fade to be opened through you. If you're going to be angry, be angry with the Tevinter magisters for opening up that floodgate."

"Oh! Of course!" Innley's tone was decidedly hostile. " _Magic will not rule over man_. I forgot about your brainwashing."

Samantha shook her head in confusion. "Brainwashing?"

"Calm down," Langley warned, and he was staring at her brother so hard, Samantha thought he would burn holes in Innley’s head.

Corbinian seemed annoyed at the whole scene. "I can see clearly that you're unhappy, Innley, but it's not our fault that you are cursed with—"

" _It's not a curse!_ " he spat the words through his teeth with controlled ferocity, and he took a breath before he resumed. "Is this why you have you summoned me out here? To gloat?"

"Summoned you? Gloat? I thought you would want to see me! We're family!" Samantha gawked at him, irritated at the anger he was directing at her. "Even if our parents have abandoned you, I will not."

Innley's anger did not recede as he looked at her and in his eyes was a growing indignation that screamed more than just blind fury. They seethed with regret, with longing, with a hunger for a different life; and then he said, "I am not your family."

"Wh-what?"

Innley glanced over her shoulder to where the tranquil mage disappeared. "That walking corpse over there is more my family than you are."

"Now who's brainwashed?" Corbinian burst out furiously. "I know it was your fraternity that was responsible for that bit of trouble here a few years ago. Whatever they've told you about your _family_ , I can guarantee you that they don't love you nearly as much as your sister."

"How can she love a monster?" Innley asked snidely. "That's what the Chantry teaches, isn't it?"

"Hey," Ser Langley warned.

Shay stepped closer. "It's all right, Innley."

He closed his eyes momentarily before he continued speaking to Samantha. "I don't even know you. You come here, to my prison, summon me from my cell, and—what? Am I expected to celebrate that you are here? Rejoice in the freedoms that you have because you weren't born a mage? Just like I am expected to serve the city by performing the very magic that everyone seems to find so abhorrent?"

"Okay—" Langley placed his hand on Innley's shoulder.

Shay cut in. "Stop—"

"It's your duty," Corbinian commanded, as though he were back in the practice yard training young recruits. "Everyone in Starkhaven has one. Even me."

"Right," Innley scoffed. "My _duty_. Duty implies honor. Honor implies respect. Mages don't receive that, and like the rest of my _family_ , I have no future in this duty. My future is this—" He gestured to Langley, who was still holding Innley's shoulder in one hand and his sword in the other. "Right here. Forever. Until I am made like him." He pointed over Samantha's shoulder again, and she turned to see the tranquil mage squinting at the roses, trimming them very carefully.

"Surely you can make a life—" Samantha started.

"My life has already been made for me," Innley interrupted.

"I won't warn you again," Langley glared, but he had the faintest of smiles, and his grip on that enormous black sword was tight.

"It's fine." Corbinian held out his hand to halt the Templar, but Ser Langley turned to Corbinian with a serious look. Shay stepped between them, lifting her small hands out to keep them apart.

Samantha took a small step back, watching all the while. The way all these fighters were standing with their bodies rigid and their hands poised so near to their swords made her nervous. The prince did not command the Templars – the Chantry did. And while, legally, the Circle was governed by the Chantry and not the palace, the Templars in Starkhaven granted a lot of favor to the Vaels because of their strong Chantry ties. Though just a lieutenant in the Royal Army, everyone knew Corbinian would be the Captain someday and so usually the Templars granted him deference. But would that be enough this time?

"My brother won't hurt anyone," Samantha said quietly, hoping to the Maker that it was true.

"You still don't see it? Must I spell it out for you?" Innley's contempt was immeasurable. "I am a _slave_ , sister. Look at me. Look at my prison. Look at my jailors." He didn't move, but he didn't have to.

"That's it. We're done." Langley grabbed Innley's arms, but while he didn't fight back, he kept talking.

"The Tower might be beautiful and comfortable, but it's still a prison!"

"I said _enough_." Langley shook him hard but Innley still didn't fight back.

Shay cried out for him to stop, but Ser Langley ignored her and Innley kept talking. "This isn't a life! This is an amputation—!"

Ser Langley clamped a hard hand over his mouth, and the Templar was not gentle as he pulled Innley back into the Circle Tower. Samantha covered her eyes, listening only to the clang of metal and the scuffle of feet against soft earth and stone.

Corbinian's arm settled upon her shoulders as he turned her, leading her past the tranquil mage, who hadn't even looked up to see what the commotion was all about. Samantha’s eyes blurred with fat tears and she tried to brush them away with her gloved fingers. As he walked her far away from the deceptively pristine Tower, she couldn’t help thinking bitterly that, despite all this neatness, the Chantry wasn’t even bothering to hide its dark underbelly.

All of her visits had been upsetting in some way, but never had Innley been so openly hostile towards Samantha. Nor to Corbinian. And certainly not to the Templars, who everyone said were only trying to protect him – but why did they have to protect him so violently?

"I don't know if I can stand this," she admitted as they stopped at the statue of Corin the Grey Warden.

"Did you see the mark on Shay's armor?"

"What?"

"The mark. On her armor. It was here." Corbinian lifted a finger to his shoulder. "They scratch their armor right at the shoulder joint. It's a message to the mages who their friends are."

Samantha dabbed her eyes with his handkerchief. "You mean… she's a sympathizer?"

"That's exactly what I mean."

A sympathizer! A Templar? And there were more of them? "What exactly do they do?"

"Shay told me that there is a group of Templars that use symbols and markings to let the mages know who to trust. It's a secret code to indicate who will be kind… understanding… gentle might the best way to put it. Those without that mark, like Ser Langley, are Templars who are… unkind. Templars to avoid."

"She had the mark." Samantha thought about how Shay tried to step in, to protect Innley from the others. "She tried to help him."

He nodded.

"But he was so different… so angry…"

"Yes…" Corbinian leaned against Corin's pedestal; the elf had fallen to his knee, gripping his broadsword to keep himself upright, looking upwards to the Maker in thanks for granting him victory. That was what the plaque below said, anyway. "But Innley isn't alone."

Samantha looked up to the bronze likeness of the elven Grey Warden, and wondered if he was cursing the Maker instead. Cursing Him for the all the evil in the world that forced such sacrifices to be made. Sacrifices like love and family. How many things was Innley forced to sacrifice, just because he was born with magic? That wasn't his fault. Just like being born an elf wasn't Corin's fault.

She thought about the Templars. When she was younger, they were righteous crusaders safeguarding the citizens and the mages, but, during the last few years, they had become something different. The group had once been singular in her mind, but was now splintered into factions: those who enjoyed the power, and those who felt responsible for it. It brought her some measure of comfort to think that someone was watching out for her brother, even if it was weaker Templars like Ser Shay.

Samantha thought about Innley's supposed family. That weird looking man with the unkempt beard, the young woman with the tattoo, the boy with darker skin than Corbinian… they were unknowns, paper dolls standing in a diorama and her perspective had been skewed.

She glanced over her shoulder to the Tower, white and beautiful. "Maybe so, but I doubt the good intentions of his company."

"We won't let him push us away. I don't care if he screams at us for the next ten years, we’ll still visit him."

She cracked a grin, but it faded away when she thought of her brother raging at her. "He was so angry…"

Corbinian nodded, but then he said, rather unexpectedly, "I remember how I felt when I was sent away…" He hesitated for a moment. It seemed a small thing, those seconds where his thoughts were miles and miles away in a city peppered with mausoleums that had been built in celebration of death. "Everyone goes through phases. We get scared, we get angry, we get scared again."

" _You_ were scared?" she asked skeptically.

"Of course. And then I was angry," he said frankly. "But I knew I'd come back."

"Unlike your _other brother_?"

He gave her a half smile, and not his best attempt at that. "Sebastian."

She tightened her grip on his hand, wishing they were behind a locked door so she could embrace him without worry of who might be around the corner. "Do you miss him?"

He shrugged. "I received a letter from him yesterday. He's planning on taking his vows to the Chantry in the coming months."

So Sebastian Vael had finally committed to something – but it was to becoming a brother in the Kirkwall Chantry. Samantha couldn't wrap her head around it; in her mind, he was still the wild and reckless boy who had once removed a suit of armor from the Harimanns’ estate and left it standing in the Starkhaven Chantry. She remembered arriving for service along with the rest of the nobles to see the armor standing behind the Grand Cleric's podium. Francesca hadn't been amused.

For as long as she could remember, the _brothers_ had been inseparable until whatever row had sent Sebastian to Kirkwall and Corbinian to Nevarra, effectively dissolving their friendship. Now, their relationship more closely resembled rivalry as each seemingly disapproved of the other. But brothers fight, and brothers never let go – Samantha hoped that was true of _her_ brother – and she imagined that the two Vaels would find a way to come back together just as she held that hope for her own family.

_Someday._

"You object to this course of action?" She asked him, and he hesitated a moment, like he knew the answer but didn't want to say, and so she bravely stepped closer, placing her feet between his, and mentally damning anyone who found them to the Fade. "Are you ever going to tell me what's between you two?"

He flashed her that winning smile. "Why, you, of course."


	14. 9:29 Dragon, Winter

**9:29 Dragon, Winter**

Autumn had finished its retreat behind the clouds, cooling the earth to an unpalatable temperature. For the next five months, there would be nothing but overcast skies and nondescript days with the occasional downpour. This mid-morning was no different as Samantha sighed out the window, watching the naked trees twist in agony towards the sky, searching for light, searching for warmth, searching for hope. She could relate.

Her mother and Lady Garrity were seated on similar seats to hers: bright green cushions with pale pink pillows, all arranged strategically around a short, round table that had been carefully set. The centerpiece was a tall, curvy teapot that reflected the world around her like a warped mirror. There were small forks and spoons laid next to tiny, finely crafted teacups, so thin and delicate that Samantha had worried about crushing hers in her fingers. Around the centerpiece stood several trays; a mound of small maple-glazed ham sandwiches on thin black bread that had been cut into palm-sized circles, pears that had been carved to look like roses and dusted with cinnamon, and finally individually cut square yellow cakes with a layer of puffy cream in the center cut so small that some of them had begun to lean. Samantha had eaten sparingly as her mother had instructed: _a lady only eats what she can fit in her palm_.

It seemed ridiculous to Samantha that her mother would have ordered all this food to be prepared only for the ladies to nibble on the smallest pieces of each. She wondered where the rest of it went when they were done. Did they throw it away? Did the servants eat it? – no, wait, her mother would never allow that. Innley wasn't here anymore to wake her at midnight to raid the kitchen stores. She imagined all this pretty food ending up in a pile of garbage somewhere. Rotting away. The thought made Samantha’s stomach bottom out with hunger, and she was dying to reach for another sandwich but nevertheless remained still.

She caught a small elven girl out of the corner of her eye, silently gliding across the room. Her tiny feet barely touched the multi-colored rug, and even with a shining and likely heavy sterling silver tray on her palm, she moved with such grace that Samantha wondered why the elves weren't tasked with entertaining. Such lithe creatures, full of grace – well, most of them – with eyes like jewels and legs as long as tree branches. She had heard about some elven ballet dancers in Orlais, but those were only rumors. The elven girl set down a tray of round little mounds of smooth chocolate truffles dusted with some red powder. She glanced at the two women who eyed the tray seriously only to look away to their teacups. They were so ridiculous!

"This is lovely setting," Lady Garrity gushed, brushing her fingers over the delicate lace napkins embroidered with tiny flowers along the edges. She then lifted up a small spoon, one meant only for stirring tea. "I recognize the work of Starkhaven's seamstresses, but whoever works in your kitchens must be a closely guarded secret. I have never tasted lemon cakes such as these! So moist!"

Lady Garrity was a beautiful woman. She was taller than most, with a round face and smooth skin like a mushroom, but what was most striking about her was her hair. It was the color of the sun-touched gold, and on this dreary morning, it flowed down her back, and was decorated with several lavish floral combs holding it back from her face. She was Ander, obviously, with sky blue eyes that conveyed a depth that wasn't there. Samantha thought she wore too much jewelry; aside from the combs, she had a ring on nearly every finger, bracelets that lined her wrists, gaudy necklaces, and earrings that stretched her lobes. She was so pretty – she didn't need all of that... but, she reminded herself, of course Lady Garrity wasn't trying to look beautiful with all that jewelry – she was trying to look rich.

"Thank you." Lady Mayweather smiled gently. "Gustavo is a rare find. We will be hosting a gathering here in the spring, and then you will see his hors d'oeuvres. He makes the most amazing éclairs. They are so tiny, they fit on the tip of your finger!"

"That will be a party to look forward to. One of the few, I am sure." Lady Garrity let her gaze saunter over to Samantha, who remained silent. "Will the occasion be to… make a formal announcement?"

She was referring to the location and date of the wedding – always the last decisions to be made. It was tradition in Starkhaven to throw a party whenever a small detail about a wedding had been arranged. The Mayweathers had thrown five in two and a half years; one each for the choice of caterer (some young and trendy chef who called his food _infusions_ ), florist (the Duchess liked calla lilies imported from Antiva, of course), seamstress (a snooty man from Orlais who insisted Samantha lose ten pounds), music (a trio of harpists), and an artist (an Antivan woman whose artwork was said to capture _inner music_ , whatever that was) to paint portraits of the wedding party.

Lady Mayweather reached over, barely placing her palm on top of her daughter's. "Don't let her silence fool you, Verona. My Samantha is as ecstatic as a bride could be."

Samantha turned to Lady Garrity and offered a sweet smile. Though she was greatly anticipating her marriage, it wasn't for the parties. What was on her mind on this day was that, once married and moved into the royal palace, she wouldn't have to endure mid-morning tea with her mother's shallow friends. Although, she supposed she hadn't quite considered the thought of mid-morning tea with the Duchess: that lazy accent and slow manner of speaking was agonizing even in short conversations. Still, at least today, it seemed like a preferable alternative.

But that was all really secondary to Samantha's main reason for guarding her emotions: she couldn't bring herself to show her excitement in front of her mother. She glanced at the woman, sitting tall and proper, with half-lidded eyes, as she sipped her tea, perfectly content to fuss over the shape of the crab cakes, the exact color of the bells, the length of the ribbons – all of which brought her immense joy that Samantha refused to share in. No, she would punish her mother by withdrawing, because Innley wasn't here to remind her of that hollow place in her chest where a heart should be.

Lady Garrity let out a small sigh. "If only Benjamin were so settled – and at such a young age! But he insists on chasing around that Antivan girl. I am certain she is just a passing distraction."

"Little girls like that usually are," Lady Mayweather reassured her. "Don't worry. Benjamin will grow up as all boys do, and his attention will turn to a true young lady, poised and full of grace and wit."

"Oh, your words soothe me so!"

Samantha directed her gaze back out the window. These two would likely go on for hours until lunch was served, a meal at which they would stare longingly and eat only crumbs. She wondered how long she would have to endure their gushing about their perfect lives and their perfect children and the tea and the silverware and the floral arrangements before Samantha could get away?

"I had hoped he would take an interest in his other friend, the lovely Flora Harimann. But with her family of late…" Lady Garrity shook her head sadly.

Samantha heard them, but didn't move.

"It's such a shame, is it not?" Her mother set her teacup in its saucer. "They were such a good family."

"I really feel for the girl, because she is an innocent in this." Lady Garrity sipped her tea, with her brows raised as if in thought. "One can only hope that her mother's reputation does not stain the entire family’s name. They have been in Starkhaven for generations. Since…" She paused, her teacup inches from its saucer. "The Blessed Age at least."

"’Tis truly a tragedy," Lady Mayweather agreed.

"I heard that the prince has asked her to leave."

Samantha's mother gasped dramatically. "No!"

"I'm afraid so." Lady Garrity sounded so apologetic. "My Benjamin would have considered her, too."

Samantha actually hadn't breathed in almost a minute, and she imagined her cheeks were turning pink. She let out a controlled breath, and blinked several times – this was news to her. Flora's mother had been asked to _leave Starkhaven_? Exiled? Like Sebastian?

"Oh, excuse me!" Lady Garrity was now breathless as she looked over Samantha. "My apologies, my dear. I know that you count young Flora among your friendships."

Her mother looked to her and cocked a carefully shaped eyebrow, and Samantha knew she should say something.

She turned dutifully back to Lady Garrity, the strings of the puppet firmly in her mother's hands. "Flora is a strong girl. She will survive with her reputation intact – do not doubt it."

"I admire your conviction, young one." Lady Garrity gave her a condescending smile. "But one does not simply _survive_ scandal. One must come out on the other end unscathed. Stronger. More respected. It takes more than apologies and politeness…" She then gave Samantha a lingering look before redirecting her gaze back to her tea.

Lady Garrity was referencing the incident of supposed debauchery at the fountain of Andraste over six years ago! Such audacity nearly grew Samantha's esteem for the woman.

Samantha turned slightly on her cushion, facing both of them, and no longer caring what her mother desired for this morning. "Well, even with poor Flora's circumstance, I wouldn’t worry about Benjamin's matrimonial future. Arianna is neither polite nor does she apologize, which are qualities that I hear Garrity men really like."

Lady Garrity's mouth dropped open.

Her mother's eyes widened for a moment, but only just. It was just like the Harimanns’ party for Ruxton, when her mother had ignored her question about Innley.

Lady Mayweather looked over to Lady Garrity and spoke so calmly when she said: "Benjamin will choose a fine girl when the time is right. Just as the Marquess did when he chose my darling Samantha. She is so very excited about her upcoming wedding that she has barely had time to consider anything else."

The way Lady Garrity relaxed, as though Samantha had said nothing, as though her mother had erased everything she had said and replaced Samantha's words with her own, ignited a fire of fury deep within her chest. She stood abruptly, determined to insult someone. "I am sure that by the time Benji marries, he will have sampled enough Antivan girls to rid him of his boyhood urges. Excuse me." She curtsied, turning and striding through the room with determination.

Lady Garrity looked positively aghast but her mother remained calm.

As Samantha left the room, she heard her mother say: "Wait until you see the floral arrangements for my darling Samantha's wedding. The Duchess has the most exquisite taste!"

She knew she would get into trouble later, and perhaps her mother would tell her father, but she didn't care. Lady Garrity couldn't see past stature to the end of her own nose. Such a snob! But her words still echoed through Samantha's mind. The things she had said about Lady Harimann, about Flora, and about their family name…

She walked faster than a lady should through her own home, turning the corner into the front room and nearly crashing into a tall male servant who was carrying a stack of table linens. He fumbled for an apology in terror, only relaxing after Samantha assured him that it was her blunder. She threw open the closet doors and fished through for her coat, finding it smashed between two of her mother's thick furs. Shrugging it onto her shoulders, she exited her estate into the dreary mid-morning.

Flora's estate wasn't that far away, but the chill in the air turned to dread in Samantha's stomach. With each step she took down the empty street, she wondered what would await her at her friend's doorstep.

A young human boy in white answered the door, bowing deeply before ushering her inside and taking her coat. Another boy appeared out of nowhere, offering her a warm cup of spiced apple cider. This was common in Granite Circle at this time of year.

"I am here to see Flora," Samantha said, warming her fingers around yet another tiny porcelain cup.

The boy clicked his heels as he acknowledged her request, and then disappeared, leaving Samantha in the Harimanns’ foyer, which was larger than most of the confessions rooms at the chantry. While she waited, she looked up at the grand painting of Lord and Lady Harimann that decorated the largest wall, the one adjacent to the sitting room. Even in likeness, Lady Harimann looked cold. For her posture, she might have been alone in the picture, yet Lord Harimann stood at her side, nearly behind her, as she stared out from the silver frame with a serious expression that looked almost like menace.

Flora's feet dotted each step of the staircase in haste, her skirt bouncing from her knees. When she reached the foyer, she wrapped her arms around Samantha's neck in surprise, nearly spilling the cider in the process.

"Sammie! I didn't realize we had plans! I must have forgotten."

"No, no, Flora." Samantha set the cup down on a nearby table, small and draped with a thin lace covering. "I have come unbidden."

Flora smiled, but she looked tired. "Then to what do I owe this unexpected pleasure? Are you here to escape your royal engagement? I can't go anywhere in this town without hearing about it."

"Me neither." Samantha groaned. "You would think there was nothing else going on in Starkhaven. But that's not why I'm here…"

Flora held Samantha's hands. "Then pray tell."

Samantha hesitated. "May we… go somewhere private?"

Her friend's look was almost sinister in its naughtiness, as if she expected Samantha to divulge some beguiling gossip. With a breathy whisper, she said: "I'll get my coat!"

The pair ended up in the Harimanns’ gardens, more vast than the gardens of Samantha's estate yet just as colorless. Only when they had created enough distance from anyone's ear did Samantha speak.

"Lady Garrity was at my home this morning having tea with my mother." Her voice turned sour when she spoke of Lady Mayweather. "They spoke of you. Of your family…"

Flora's face remained still, as unreadable as the Tevinter language.

"She said things about your mother…" Samantha suddenly felt emotional, thinking of her best friend and confidante, the only person who kept her grounded besides Corbinian. "Flora… please tell me you aren't leaving Starkhaven."

Flora's eyes filled with tears almost immediately, but she blinked them back just as quickly. "I… I don't know what will happen."

Samantha couldn't believe it. She had wanted her friend to refute the rumors, but Flora remained passive. Her friend finally glanced over at her, and that was all it took for the girl's usually tough exterior to melt away.

"Oh, Sammie…"

They paused in the garden, staring at each other for a long while before Samantha finally grasped Flora's coat and took a shuddered breath inward, as if she were barely containing her tears. "You can't leave."

Flora blinked hard. "Don't make me cry, damn you."

"What has happened?"

Flora sighed loudly, looking entirely uncomfortable, and she glanced back at her estate before she led Samantha further into the garden, the dead and dying flora of the world punctuating the melancholy of their namesake. "It started with the Council and the estate and the expansion. It's turned into… a mess. My parents are talking about moving to Kirkwall. Permanently."

Samantha let out a small noise. "When were you going to tell me?"

"I was hoping I wouldn't have to! I was hoping all this would go away! But it seems like things are getting worse. My parents fight all the time now. Ruxton is… never around. Brett, too. My mother keeps trying to talk me into…" She turned pale for a moment. "Considering Goran Vael. I can't even describe to you how adamant she has been."

"Doesn't she consider your wishes? Your reputation?"

"She says that's all she considers. Sometimes I think she's mad. She gets this look in her eyes, and I can't… It's hard to describe."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean… I can't argue with her. I try, but… I don't know, I turn stupid or something." She shook her head slightly, perhaps to push away the aggravation she clearly felt. "I wish I could describe it. But I will never consider _Goran Vael._ Yech." Flora stuck out her tongue in disgust.

"Goran isn't that bad," Samantha said, though she wasn't so sure. "Regardless, your mother shouldn't be pushing a match that you don't approve of. I mean, what's the point?"

Flora stopped in the middle of the garden again, the rose bushes empty and thorny just behind her, and she glanced back at her house. "Promise me that what I'm about to tell you will not leave your lips ever."

Samantha stood up tall, her eyes wide with curiosity. "I promise."

"Last night," Flora began, "I heard my parents arguing. It was the worst argument I'd ever heard. It was about our estate in Kirkwall. You know that she's travelled there five times already this year, which is quite the expense."

Samantha nodded.

"They've been sinking so much money into the expansion of the Kirkwall estate that… I heard my father say that our holdings might need to be mortgaged."

" _What_?" Samantha brought her fingers to her mouth – such financial extensions were only for the truly desperate.

Flora's entire body tensed when she made Samantha promise: "You can't tell a soul that I said that."

"I won't." Samantha insisted, somewhat annoyed at her friend's lack of trust.

Flora relaxed, but only a little. "My father suggested putting a halt on the construction in Kirkwall, but Mother… she became irate. I've never heard her so shrill, so out of control. I heard crashes and…" Flora paused for a long time, her eyes flashing with things that she seemed considered saying, but didn't. "This morning… there was a very different scene…" Flora then seemed frightened – the unflappable Flora Harimann, frightened!  "Mother and Father were calm. Breaking their fast while making plans to travel to Kirkwall. They plan to bring me, Ruxton, and Brett and his wife – all of us with them."

"Were they still fighting?" Samantha asked.

"No!" Flora's face crumbled. "They were so calm! Amenable, even!"

Samantha felt confused. "Isn't that a good thing?"

"You didn't see… My father…" Flora had to catch her breath. "He seemed…" She brought her hands to her eyes to hide the tears and shaking her head as she whimpered out the words: "I don't want to go!"

Samantha didn't know what to say. This was odd, indeed. Normally Flora would be very interested in travelling to Kirkwall, as Sebastian was there, though she had never really worked up the nerve to spend any meaningful time with him. Somehow the situation had changed.

She had come to the Harimann estate nearly in tears, hoping that Flora would give her reassurance, but now she was the one searching for words of comfort.

"Perhaps your father just lost the debate. He is not an eloquent man," Samantha said gently as Flora sniffled. Lord Harimann's affection was clear while Lady Harimann's feelings were kept to herself. She had never been one to show sentiment in public.

"But he could hardly argue!" Flora's watery words came out feckless. "His voice… his eyes…"

Samantha watched her friend feverishly try to hide her despair. She briefly wondered what it would be like to witness her own parents’ arguments, if they had any. Had her parents been expert in hiding their own disagreements about Innley over the years? To Samantha, they seemed a united front of heartlessness, but she wanted so badly for there to be something behind it. Was she only seeing what she wanted? Was there more? Was there more to Flora's family that she wasn't letting show? Her own father's stern severity was in stark contrast to Lord Harimann's malleability.

"Sammie, I'm afraid if we leave, we'll never come back."

"But your estate here is much nicer than the one in Kirkwall!" It was the first thought that popped into her head, as simple as that was, but she meant to imply something deeper. "I just mean that your mother is… well, she's sort of obsessed with status."

"I know," Flora said quietly.

"Is it… because of her meeting with the prince?" Samantha was starting to feel afraid.

"So the rumors are out, then." Her friend hesitated. "About my parents… summoned by the prince."

Samantha was shocked that she hadn't heard this from her best friend first. That she had to hear it from Lady Garrity, ambushed at tea. "It's true?"

Flora nodded slowly, sniffling back emotion. "They were… warned, I think. I overheard my mother say that she and the prince came to _an understanding about their respective positions_."

Samantha could only imagine what that really meant; likely Lady Harimann had overstepped her title. She tried to imagine Starkhaven without Flora Harimann, and came up with a sea of grey, just like the clouds overhead: a stretch of endlessly empty days where each flower that bloomed wilted just as quickly and never returned.

"It seems ridiculous that you would move so far away permanently."

"I know…" Flora sighed deeply, swaying a little like she needed to sit down. "But I think she's trying to leave before being _asked_ to leave."

"How do you know?"

Flora shrugged. "Just a feeling."

"She didn't say so last night?"

"She probably didn't want to. It's embarrassing…" Flora certainly seemed embarrassed. "My father has lived his whole life here, his family has kept an estate here for centuries. To be asked to leave, to be warned even, is such a shame! If anyone knew… Well, that would be reason enough to go."

Samantha opened her mouth to keep going, but quickly snapped it shut, understanding that she wasn't actually helping. Slowly, her thoughts began to wrap around the truth: that Flora was leaving Starkhaven. That Ruxton was, too. All the Harimanns. That they may never return.

Samantha wanted to be gentle, be smart and clever, to make her friend look up from her hands, to smile again and speak like she wasn't holding back. "You're always traveling to Kirkwall anyway. Maybe now you'll just travel here instead."

"Kirkwall isn't Starkhaven," Flora said sullenly.

"Can't be that bad."

"You've never been."

"Then I suppose I'll just have to visit."

Flora seemed to halt her despair for the briefest of moments. "What?"

"Beenie and I will just have to make the trip, I guess. I mean, I doubt Kirkwall will impress me much. It borders Ferelden, after all."

Flora actually let out a small laugh. "There's an entire sea between them!"

"Not big enough, I hear."

"It's not all bad…" That sounded like a concession or perhaps an admittance that even Flora herself didn't fully believe. "I mean, as long as you stay out of Lowtown. And Darktown. And the alienage. And the Gallows… Okay, as long as you only stay in Hightown…" She paused a moment before she said, "I guess that's it."

"Hightown," Samantha repeated. "Sounds classy."

Flora laughed more brightly, bringing her hands to her eyes. "Oh, Sammie. I'm going to miss you."

"Oh, I'll write!" She reached for her friend’s hands. "Or better yet I'll have servants write for me! _And_ you'll be near you-know-who…!"

"You mean Sebastian."

"No, I meant Viscount Dumar. I hear he's gorgeous!"

Flora groaned in her misery, but also laughed. "Ugh! Maker! Well, I suppose he's attractive in a bruised-peach kind of way."

The pair shared a hearty laugh at that. Samantha linked her arm through her friend's. "Let's take a walk. Granite Circle is always quiet on overcast days like this. We shouldn't run into anyone."

Flora smiled and nodded, at last showing relief. She held Samantha's arm a little closer than usual, and they spoke of all the things that Flora wouldn't miss, like Goran Vael and all of his awkward advances, Francesca's sermons which were all the same, Starkhaven's general snobbery which the nobles of Kirkwall didn't display to such a degree, but mostly, the romanticism of starting anew.

"Just think of all those you can impress with stories no one has ever heard!" Samantha declared, masking her own sadness. "No one will have heard the story about that time Ruxton put shrimp in Lady Fortney's hair – you remember, when she wore that ridiculous hairpiece with all those squirrels?"

"She never did notice!" Flora giggled herself silly, taking a moment to recover. "What about that time that Beenie took his mother's best hat – the one with ostrich plumes – and placed it on the statue of Andraste, and Francesca didn't notice until after service was over?"

Samantha laughed so hard her cheeks felt sore. "Or that time Sebastian set fire to the barns just so we could get out of service?"

"I remember that! I remember how we escaped through the south gate, and made it all the way to the edge of the swamps. And then we were all too chicken to go in."

Samantha laughed heartily, but when they reached the fountain of Andraste, they both quieted down. Settling on an adjacent bench, they surveyed the location of their last true act of wildness; an act that Lady Garrity had referenced only an hour ago. Six years had passed since Corbinian splashed around in that fountain with his trousers rolled up, while Sebastian waved his glass around and proclaimed Innley a heretic, Samantha with her wine glass high in the air, and Flora and Ruxton laughing ridiculously on this very bench.

"Everything changed after that night," Flora said softly. "It's like, just when you want everything to stay still, everything moves."

"Nothing ever stays still," Samantha looked up at Andraste.

With her face turned towards the grey sky, Andraste looked to the Maker for answers. That was probably the implication for this particular rendition of the warrior prophetess; her expression solemn as she tilted her chin upwards, her hands together, her shoulders back. Samantha remembered that night the same way one might remember a dream had when one was sick. The images were thick in her head: Sebastian's aggressiveness, Corbinian's departure into unconsciousness, Ruxton's ascot, her own torn dress, Innley dropping the wine bottle, and Flora's hair drooping to her shoulders. Samantha stretched her ankle at the memory of the pain from twisting it.  A lifetime ago.

"Is your estate in Kirkwall ready for guests?" Samantha asked, thinking about her visit, and how large a party they might be bringing.

“I don’t know.” Flora sounded resigned. "My mother's renovations keep expanding. It's a simple enough layout down there, but last year she added a second library, and she just changed the plans again to add another wine cellar. It never ends." She let out a great sigh. "Promise me you'll visit."

"First chance I get!"

"You won't be locked away in some expensive rental for royalty, will you? I won't need an appointment to see you?"

"For you, Flora, I would send Empress Celine herself away."

Flora cracked a smile. "So considerate… You'll make a great princess-cousin, or whatever it is you will be."

"I think if Beenie's mother has anything to say about it, I'll be knocked up."

"Knocked up with a Vael…" Flora smirked wistfully. "My mother would kill to be your mother."

Samantha wanted to remember this moment just as it was, with Flora pinning her hair behind her ears, even though it never stayed there, and Samantha nudging her playfully in front of the fountain of Andraste. The warrior prophetess looked away to the heavens praying to the Maker to keep them all safe, which was what Samantha hoped for, too. But Flora had been right earlier: just when she wanted everything to stay still, everything moved. Though, perhaps it had been moving all along, just slow enough to go beyond notice, and as Samantha laid her head on Flora's shoulder and willed her to somehow stay, she knew she would not. Flora would move. Away to some other city just as Samantha would move to the royal palace of Starkhaven, and both would start a new chapter in their lives.

Samantha felt her next chapter would be a happy one, but she had no idea what lay ahead for Flora. Her dearest friend. She had no idea that their paths would converge again someday, opposite sides of a line drawn with loyalty and blood.


	15. 9:30 Dragon, Summer

**9:30 Dragon, Summer**

It had been a particularly lovely day – the sun was high in the sky, not a cloud in sight, and a slight cool breeze from the south tickled the leaves of the trees. Most Haveners had been propelled into spontaneous brunches, suddenly setting their patios with their best dinnerware and calling upon servants to set service for ten.

The Mayweathers had received such an invitation from the Prestons, but they had been to decline, as they had already planned brunch with the Duke and Duchess of Starkhaven, Goran, and Corbinian. It had been scheduled weeks ago.

There was no official reason for the invitation; the wedding details were, at last, settled. Public celebrations were being planned, and Samantha's measurements had been sent to the appropriate tailors and seamstresses to fill her Trousseau with all the appropriate royal attire, including a cape which Samantha thought ridiculous. She had never seen any Vael wear a cape!

Lady Mayweather was concerned that Samantha's behavior with Lady Garrity, in addition to the stealthy escapades that she and Corbinian regularly engaged in, had somehow influenced the Vael family to reconsider the engagement. Samantha would have laughed if not for her father's glare, which was, in a word, disapproving.

Brunch was somewhere between highly entertaining—for she thought her mother might explode from worry—and excruciating, for the Duke and Duchess were ever calm, exceedingly polite, and so utterly cordial that Samantha wondered if they had any reason for this call other than social graces.

The table was not piled high with sweetmeats on this day. Rather, they had arranged for a nine-course meal, which included—in the following order—a single cube of cantaloupe with a leaf of basil and a tiny ball of salty, white cheese, a pate accented with some kind of violent-looking mushroom, about two bites of cauliflower sprinkled with chives and smoked cheese, escargot imported from Orlais, about three spoonfuls of a creamy and garlicky soup made from kale, a sliver of game hen roasted and served on a spoon filled with wild rice and topped with caviar, a small salad with walnuts, blue cheese, and pears, a bite of crème brulee so small that Samantha wished for more, and, finally, a concoction of champagne, grapefruit juice, and pear juice. Even though each plate housed no more than three bites, Samantha still felt stuffed.

Afterwards, they retreated to a quiet sitting room where there were no books, no pianoforte, no card tables... nothing at all but comfortable couches and chairs. This room was clearly meant for business. Samantha sat on a small sofa and before she could even look up, Corbinian settled down beside her, taking her hand into his own. Confusion turned her body stiff: what could be so important that he was comforting her before she required it?

The Duke stood next to his youngest son, Goran, who was seated next to the Duchess on a cream-colored highback sofa, and though Goran slouched against the cushions, his mother never leaned back. She kept herself perfectly poised, her legs crossed at the ankles, her hands together in her lap. The string of sapphires around her long neck twinkled against the mid-morning sunshine that beamed through the room optimistically.

Lady Mayweather seated herself directly across from the Vaels in a matching sofa, and Lord Mayweather stood beside her, his hand resting on the back of the chair. Samantha thought he was blinking more than usual. In fact, both of her parents were tense, their shoulders held a little higher and their jaws set firm.

When talk of the weather ran its course, servants came in and brought everyone the same drink: small glasses of a dark port, and the boy left the shockingly large bottle on the center table.

"We thank you for coming," the Duke said for the third time that morning.

"We always enjoy brunch with you," Lady Vael said dreamily in her thick accent, staring at the bottle. "But we have a matter to discuss."

Goran took that moment to let out a small burp and turned a shade of pink, mumbling an apology while Lady Vael patted his knee. It was a small thing, gentle and forgiving; she seemed so prim and proper all of the time, her emotions disguised by her duty as Duchess, yet, at that singular moment when she looked at Goran, her eyes softened. Samantha could plainly see her sincere affection for him, but her display was fleeting, for she resumed her role as Duchess almost immediately.

Lady Mayweather, on the other hand, seemed to find his manners lacking, though her smile only briefly wavered. "We are always honored by your invitations."

Samantha's father looped his thumb through a button hoop on his jacket. "If you have a matter of some import to discuss with us, let us not delay. We are at your service."

Lord Vael gave a small bow of his head and took a breath, and Corbinian reached over and took Samantha's hand right as his father said, "We have received word from Ferelden. We have reason to believe that a Blight has started."

Momentary panic, swift like a hammer thudding against her chest, and Samantha could feel her blood leave her limbs, her hands growing cold underneath Corbinian's warm touch. Her mother gasped loudly, bringing a gloved hand to her chest, and her father reached down to take hold of her shoulder.

"Drink," Lady Vael instructed them. "It will help."

Samantha's mouth was dry as she reached for her port, but she did as instructed and was surprised that Corbinian's mother was right. She felt the warm sting of the alcohol soothing her nerves.

"We didn't want to further rumors by discussing it any earlier than today," Lord Vael explained. "But it appears that the archdemon has been sighted."

"Where did you say it started?" Lord Mayweather asked.

"Ferelden," the Duke repeated. "Some military outpost called Ostagar. It's quite far to the south."

Goran had his head bowed, fiddling with something in his hands as his mother sat beside him, still and tall. Corbinian kept taking deep breaths. Samantha's father's reached into his jacket for a handkerchief for his wife, who was speechless, and indeed, Samantha didn't know what to say, either.

Perhaps sensing the questions that the Mayweathers were too shocked to ask, Lord Vael stepped into the middle of the room. "There are many rumors coming out of Ferelden, but I'll tell you what is known. All but two Grey Wardens died at Ostagar."

"Only two?" Samantha's mother lifted a lace-gloved hand to her chest, her sing-song voice turned flat with dread.

"Yes," Lord Vael answered solemnly. "Only two. All of the others died. Along with the King of Ferelden. Cailan, I believe his name was."

Shocked, Samantha tightened her grip on her glass, and Corbinian took another deep breath.

"Then Ferelden is lost," Lord Mayweather bemoaned. "And it is inevitable that the horde will come here."

There had only been four Blights in known history, and two of those had come through Starkhaven. Those weren't good odds.

"It is… likely," the Duke answered, resigned. "It's been at least three months since Ostagar, and even if they send for the Wardens from Weisshaupt, there is no way that they will reach Ferelden inside of a year. There is little hope that Ferelden will survive."

"Cailan!" Samantha's mother was tearing up. "How dreadful!"

"He was married for such a short time," Lady Vael agreed tearfully. "He doesn't even have an heir."

Samantha's father looked away from his wife’s blubbering. "Surely Ferelden has some defenses. They can at least slow the horde down while we prepare."

Lord Vael shook his head. "That's unlikely. The man who named himself Regent in place of a new king is the father of the late king's wife. We've exchanged missives in attempts to confirm the rumors of the Blight, but for months, he has denied them. I know this is shocking…" He glanced kindly at Lady Mayweather, who dabbed at her eyes. "But with this new evidence, letters from multiple cities that have seen the archdemon flying overhead, and his continued denials, we don't believe he will act."

"That’s ridiculous!" Samantha's father huffed.

"He is convinced that it's simply civil unrest," Corbinian's father growled, his deep voice rumbling in his throat.

Lady Mayweather took a breath before she asked, rather innocently, "Could he be right?"

Lord Vael leveled a glare at her that betrayed his annoyance with the question. "No."

"Oh…" She backed down easily.

"The horde will grow, it will destroy Ferelden, and then sack Denerim while he sits on the throne and denies its occurrence." He took a sip from his port. "The unfortunate part is that he probably won't send resources to fight it."

Corbinian scoffed quietly at Samantha's side, and she imagined that he was thinking the same thing she was: that the truly unfortunate part was for the thousands who would die, or be forced from their homes, and for those who would lose family members and livelihoods, left to start over in some new city with nothing. Was this what responsibility did to a leader? Did it take away their compassion?

"The Wardens surely can do something," Samantha's father said hopefully."They're young," the duke answered pensively, his gaze drifting to his son. "Perhaps Corbinian's age. They are recruits, really, and don't stand a chance."

"I don't think you give them enough credit," Corbinian spoke up. "They've not lost, yet. And…" He turned to Samantha, holding her hand right. "There's a crazy rumor that they found the Ashes of Andraste."

Samantha gaped at him. "What?"

"I heard some chanters talking about it." He gave her a small grin, his eyes shining. "They received a note from chanters in Denerim who heard from chanters in some backwater town. I don't remember the name."

The news that a piece of Andraste had been found – the warrior prophetess that had shaped every life on Thedas – seemed to spark a brief respite from the horror for her. Something extraordinary had come out of something horrifying. She breathed out in awe. "That's amazing!"

"I knew you'd like that—"

"There are more pressing matters than Chantry lore," his father's stern tone cut him off. "This is a Blight, and the darkspawn horde won't be stopped by nine-hundred-year-old relics." The corners of his mouth turned down to a frown. "There's still much to learn. Much to do. We don't have the luxury of scholarship; we must prepare."

If Corbinian was bothered by his father's harsh tone, he didn't show it, casually giving Samantha small wink when the elder Vael looked away. Samantha looked from him to the Duchess, who looked longingly at her eldest son, and to Goran, who wouldn't lift his head. At first, Samantha couldn't figure out why they were all looking at him with dread, a deep-seeded fear that they didn't want to share. It was the only emotion that was poorly hidden, because it seemed to affect them all so deeply.

"What's being done?" Lady Mayweather asked, finding the strength to reach for her husband's hand upon her shoulder.

"Starkhaven has been through Blights before." Lord Vael sipped his port calmly, as though there was no cause to worry, but he kept glancing at Corbinian. "The plans were laid four hundred years ago at the end of the last Blight, but with the advancements in weaponry and masonry, we will be able to update the plans. The prince has been quietly seeing to the fortifications for the last three months."

 _They've known for three months?_ They were really good at hiding their worry in public, Samantha decided, for she had never once suspected anything for their demeanor.

Corbinian gripped her hand tighter, and she felt herself drift, the room turning fuzzy and the voices falling away as she sank deep into the ocean blue, and in those beautiful eyes, she saw his family's uncertainty reflected back. Though he tried to hide it, for the first time ever, the Marquess of Starkhaven, her best friend, fiancé, and lover, seemed unsure. Was he afraid of the Blight? There was determination there, and she knew he would honor his duty as Captain of the Royal Army. His duty. Until his last breath.

"The Oath…" she whispered and he nodded.

"The Oath," Lord Vael echoed, but his voice was strong enough to silence all heartbeats. "This is why we have brought you here, because when news of the Blight spreads through Starkhaven, many will look to Corbinian." He turned his intimidating stare to Samantha. "And they will look to you, my dear."

"Me?" she asked, taken aback.

Lord Mayweather reached for the bottle of port to pour his wife another glass. "Samantha will be prepared, do not doubt that. She has already been given extensive lessons on history, including the Blights."

"It's not her knowledge of history we are concerned with," Lord Vael clarified. "We know that she is sophisticated—" Samantha's mother let forth a tiny proud smile. "—but what we need to make certain is that she is prepared for the questions, the comments, to stand unwavering by his side as he talks about his duty. He has taken the Oath, and when the Blight arrives, he will fight. There is no retreat. There is no other plan. He will fight or he will die."

"Vaels don't die," Corbinian remarked casually, glancing up to the walls at the portraits of Vaels long dead. "Our shadow hangs over everything. Even when we're not here."

Goran snickered under his hand, but Lady Vael seemed troubled by his cavalier attitude.

"You'll have to excuse my son's sense of humor." Lady Vael sighed.

Lord Mayweather waved one hand in the air, a gesture to show he was unaffected by Corbinian's comment.

Samantha, for her part, was staring at Corbinian's fingers wrapped around hers. She could feel his nerves: the quickened pulse underneath his ring, the one signifying his promise to marry her. She wondered if they would ever reach that day. It was less than a year away, and now there was a Blight. A real Blight.

Samantha had only ever seen pictures of darkspawn, the foulest creatures imaginable. Their skin was black and splotchy, eaten away with rot, their eyes were hollow, their jaws slack from the decay. They were like walking corpses, yet faster than a frightened cat and unrelenting in their advance. And apparently, they had found an archdemon: a dragon! The pictures in books were too fantastical to believe. A dragon, enormous and muscled, but also ravaged by disease, corrupted by insanity, spreading its taint and stitching a trail of death across Thedas. Samantha hoped Andraste was still watching over them, because she didn't want to see a corrupted dragon nor meet a horde of corpses, and she certainly didn't want to lose Corbinian to them.

The others were still talking, but she couldn't hear them. She watched Corbinian's face, and he gave her a small smile. She thought of that night when the mages had tried to escape the Circle Tower of Starkhaven... when she waited for him to return, and nearly lost hope that he would. If he went out to fight the darkspawn, would he return, or would that threat be too great for him to withstand? A darkspawn horde was a far cry from a few renegade mages.

"Miss Samantha," Lady Vael said gently.

"Yes?" She responded distantly as the worry seeped through her body like tea leaves in hot water.

The Duchess gave her a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "I am here should you need counsel on the duties and responsibilities of our family during crisis."

 _Maker_. Listening to her talk was a chore. The way she eked out every word, Samantha couldn't imagine receiving a lesson from her, because listening intently would either put her to sleep or give her a headache.

"I will do my very best, though I am unsure what is required." Samantha answered honestly.

Lord Vael let out a quiet sigh as he evaluated her, clearly considering where he should begin. "My father always said that when times are good, Starkhaven will run itself. But when there is uncertainty, that's when the people will look to their leaders. If we panic, everyone else will too. It is up to us to be strong and sure. We must hold onto our dignity even in our weakest moments, but above all, we must be decisive."

Everyone in the dimly lit room watched him as he spoke. He was so calm, and she realized that he was right. The fact that he seemed sure of what he said made her feel better, but she couldn't help but wonder if it was all an act he had been raised to perform. But did that matter?

She thought of Corin, the Grey Warden, whose statue she and Corbinian had leaned against so many times, and how he must have been calm like that, too. All Wardens must be. All Wardens must be sure and brave and strong, for what kind of person could face an entire horde of darkspawn and not run away?

She looked back to Corbinian and thought of Corin's story. It was well known by everyone in Starkhaven, because he had ended the second Blight in Starkhaven's Vanguard Square. The very spot where his statue stood. She always wondered why there was no statue of Neriah. The story went that during the battle with the archdemon, the mage and Grey Warden, Neriah, threw herself in front of the archdemon to shield Corin from a blast of fire – a blast that unfortunately killed her. If it weren't for her, Corin would never have lived to drive his sword into the beast's heart. As the story is told, after he slew the archdemon, he crawled to Neriah's lifeless body to place his hand over hers before death claimed him. That story had been romantic to Samantha, but now it seemed worse than tragic, like a nightmare. What kind of Maker would continue to forsake a people who showed such courage? _Andraste_! _Make him listen_!

Lord Vael spoke directly to Samantha. "We must insist that you spend more time at the palace and in our company. That way, you are not ambushed by the overly curious when you are alone. Once you and Corbinian are married, you will be privy to information that is not for the public, and thus you must become practiced at what to say and to whom. You may be approached by unsavory characters, desperate for a livelihood and promising to take the Oath. You must practice discretion, patience, and above all, poise."

"Yes, my lord," she responded when he paused although, truthfully, she wasn't sure if she would remember all of that.

"Corbinian will have additional responsibilities as well, as he is the only living soul in Starkhaven who is obligated by the Oath." Lord Vael took a drink from his port, and it seemed to Samantha that he growing uncomfortable. "His training time will increase. As Captain of the Royal Army, he will have to work closer with the Circle, the Templars, the militia, the archery, and cavalry regiments. Oathtakers are a special group… they must prepare in different ways. They must learn to stay alive…" He paused a moment, clearing his throat before he finished: "To fight for as long as they can."

He was afraid! Samantha blinked fast, not wanting anyone to see her tears, no matter that her mother was whimpering and Lady Vael was dabbing her eyes with a delicate handkerchief. No matter that Goran still hadn't looked up, though Samantha thought his cheeks were turning ruddy. No matter that Corbinian was gripping her fingers so tight, the tips were starting to tingle. Her breath was hitching as she pretended everything was just fine.

"I'm not going to die, Sammie." Corbinian's baritone voice puffed into her ear, whispering so quietly, none of the others could possibly hear him. She tilted her head towards him, wanting to be so much closer, and he lifted a finger up to her cheek, gently brushing away an escaped tear. "I promise."

She wanted to believe him. But there was a great big world on the other side of Starkhaven's towering iron gates. The darkspawn. The archdemon. Magic. Was there anywhere in the world that evil couldn't touch?

Only a few weeks passed before news of the Blight reached Starkhaven after Samantha and her family learned of it, for the post never ceased. By midsummer, the people of Starkhaven were completely consumed with what the Grand Cleric called "Blight Panic". Those who weren't consumed with worry were obsessed with every small detail of what was happening in Ferelden. The wildest stories were always about the Wardens.

Sebastian had written to describe the thousands of refugees that blanketed the gates of Kirkwall, so many that they had closed the city. Men, women, children, and worst of all, mabari, had run away from Ferelden, crossing the Waking Sea in search of refuge, sometimes in the dead of night as the darkspawn devoured their homes and set fire to their lands. They had no warning just as they had nothing left. Once the poorer districts had swelled above capacity, the countryside had become littered with refugee Fereldans. Kirkwall remained closed for months as more and more gathered outside the gates – so many, Sebastian had said, that sickness and famine had killed off roughly a fourth of what the Blight could not.

Letters from Highever arrived every once in a while, as one of the prince's sons was married to a Fereldan woman from there. The stories were much too fantastical to be true, and everyone agreed that the bards were embellishing.

The wildest story was that the Ashes of Andraste possessed healing properties, and could cure the sick of any ailment. Corbinian didn’t believe a word of it, but Samantha remembered from her lessons that some historians thought she might possess magical abilities. Her father had never agreed with it, but insisted Samantha learn so that she would be able to converse against it.

The most ridiculous and pervasive story was that Queen Anora's father and current King Regent, some Fereldan rebellion hero named Logain Mac Tir, had abandoned his son-in-law at Ostagar, resulting in King Cailan's death at the hands of the horde. Samantha and Corbinian both had a good laugh at that one – a father abandoning his daughter's husband to die, a man who also just happened to be the King of Ferelden _and_ was the son of his best friend, late King Maric, who had died at sea? That was just ludicrous.

The people of Starkhaven devoured any story about the pair of Grey Wardens. They were rumored to be fierce fighters, surviving the wildest battles against impossible odds. This was somewhat reassuring, as many spent hours in the Chantry praying to the Maker to keep the Blight away.

The stories Samantha liked weren't about impressive battles or righteous endeavors, but about the Wardens’ altruism. They helped people. Every kind of person, too. Elves, royalty, peasants, slaves. Rumors swirled that they had saved a remote village from a darkspawn invasion, cured a pack of werewolves from their curse ("Werewolves don't exist," Corbinian had said), and cleansed the Ferelden Circle of a pride demon, saving it from the Rite of Annulment.

Blights were no longer a metaphor for struggle. Wardens were no longer a metaphor for the champion within all of us. These were real things, cold threats, and not far away. Samantha hoped that the Wardens were not so naïve as everyone feared they were. She hoped they were strong enough to fight, strong enough to survive, strong enough to face the horrors that the rest of the world couldn't. That she couldn't.

All Haveners could do was prepare, pray, and wait, the latter being the hardest part. Those that didn't flee to the north entrenched themselves in the city. Fortifications were built into basements, families hired extra guards, the presence of security increased along the perimeter of the city, recruitment for the city guard and the Royal Guard increased, and Templar enlistment and Chantry service attendance doubled. Fear made believers of the indifferent.

One late summer day, when the sky was as blue as a jay, news of the pair of Wardens stopped coming. It was as if the cold Fereldan winds that blew in from the south foreshadowed some terrible event to come. People would ask each other on the street, _have you heard anything about the Ferelden Wardens_ , and everyone would shake their head and sigh. Chantry service turned towards hope with stories about heroes and the darkest days of history, each story always ending with a pinpoint of light on the horizon, a reason to hope and not give into despair. Some days, service was short, but an hour of prayer for the Wardens followed.

When the summer days ran shorter, and the evenings turned crisp, news of Kirkwall's turmoil surfaced. Sebastian had detailed everything in a letter, and Flora filled in what gaps he left. The news was nearly as bad as news of a Blight.

A group of Qunari warriors had become marooned in Kirkwall.

Any news about the Qunari, other than their defeat, was not good news. They were probably the most hated group in the Free Marches, maybe even the world, next to the Tevinter magisters, for both had tried and succeeded at one time or another in conquering the city-states. The Qunari, with their Qun and unwavering resolve, were a threat wherever they gathered in numbers, and when they attacked, they did not retreat.

When the Qunari had attacked Starkhaven in the Steel Age, almost three hundred years ago, more than ten thousand Qunari warriors descended upon the city and killed or converted nearly twice that many citizens of Starkhaven. There was one city block just south of Julian's Track, the largest horse racing track in the Marches, which was a different color of stone, because when the Qunari had attacked, they had leveled every building. All across Starkhaven, there were old paintings of detailed stone structures that didn't exist anymore.

The Viscount of Kirkwall claimed that the group held no hostile intention, but that was a laugh. A Qunari without hostile intention was like a Templar without faith. Sebastian wrote that a section of the city was quartered for them, and that they stayed out of everyone's way… mostly. In addition to the Qunari and the growing number of refugees, crime had ballooned out of control; assassinations, thefts, and corruption ran like a fuse on fire through the city and, Sebastian lamented, the Chantry.

Kirkwall was in trouble. With a weak Viscount, a city swelled with peasant Fereldans, and a marooned group of Qunari, it was only a matter of time before the city imploded. And many feared that Starkhaven, just a ten day march north, would be next.

When the last days of summer began to shake blood-red leaves from the trees—about the time that Corbinian was promoted to Captain and Samantha had yet another engagement party, this time hosted by the Kendalls—strange rumors began to circulate about Lord Harimann, Flora's father. It seemed that many of his investors and business partners were severing ties with him. It took another few weeks to find the truth, for Flora's letter claimed ignorance. The truth was that Lord Harimann had convinced the Viscount of Kirkwall to send aid to Ferelden.

Normally, such an altruistic gesture would prompt praise, but this was a Blight and the Free Marches were no allies of Ferelden. A great many felt that the aid should have stayed within the region, shoring up the defenses of the coastal city-states who were swollen with refugees. Resources were dwindling, crime was ballooning, and military protection was growing thin. Lord Harimann and Viscount Dumar may as well have placed a banner across the famed Twin Gates of Kirkwall that said, _Screw the Free Marches_.

Flora must have been mortified at having to endure this shame, especially in front of the man she most wished to look upon her favorably: Sebastian Vael. Brother Sebastian, as he was now known. He was committed. Flora still clung to the hope that he would see her someday, maybe on the street or during service, and, of course, fall madly in love with her. It must have pained her greatly for Sebastian to discover her father's betrayal.

"I have to write to Flora," Samantha announced after she finished reading Sebastian's latest letter. "I'm sure she's ready to throw herself into the abyss with this scandal."

"Flora was never one to put on airs." Corbinian gripped his sword, his fingers resting before the bull's horns of the hilt.

 _Clang_! The smithy's hammer came down hard upon metal, the noise ringing out from the small hut nearby.

"Yeah, but Sebastian wrote us this letter—" She stopped herself, unsure of how much more she should really say but Corbinian paused, giving her that amused look before he resumed his stance and swung hard at a practice dummy. Samantha sighed. "Surely it's not a foreign idea that Flora holds him in high regard."

"If only we could say the same for him."

"Beenie!" Samantha leaned on the opposite side the fence surrounding the practice yard.

_Clang!_

He laughed. "I'm sorry, Sammie, but she'll be waiting a long time for him to break his vows."

"She's not an idiot. She's optimistic!" Samantha glanced down at Sebastian's letter, knowing that he was right. "Anyway, everyone knows that Sebastian wouldn't break his vows for anyone but himself."

"Quite right." Corbinian wiped his damp brow. "Maybe she can give him a reason…"

_Clang!_

"What reason ought that be?" Samantha teased him.

"Something he hasn't seen before."

"That narrows down the list."

"Maybe the Qunari can help her out…" He swung hard against the dummy, slicing the head clean off. He smirked, breathless from practice and enjoying showing off. "She could always join the Chantry."

Samantha couldn't help her loud laugh at that. "That would, of course, defeat the entire purpose."

 _Clang_!

He sighed, setting the tip of his sword in the dirt. "All right, fine, if we're being creative, then she needs to… I don't know…Be the kind of person he wants to be outside the Chantry. Do something important or something."

There was a pause before Samantha said, "That's a tall order."

He smiled wide, leaning on his sword. "Well, I don't think a bit of lace and a smile will work for him like it does for me."

She folded the letter, enjoying the playfulness. "I think you underestimate lace."

"But not the smile?" He evaluated her thoughtfully. "Interesting choice."At that point, they noticed that the smithy's clanging had stopped, and Samantha turned red with embarrassment. Corbinian just chuckled as he made his way over to the fence, his tunic sticking to his shoulders, his sword hanging loosely from his fingers. "Next month can't come soon enough."

"You're in such a hurry to get me in here. You know, you might regret it." She leaned against the fence, making a face at him. "I might be obnoxious to live with."

"Not unless you develop a hearing problem that requires an earhorn." Corbinian set his sword against the fence.

"Then I suppose you're safe." She ran a hand over his damp brow, the sweat clinging to his hairline and causing his hair to stick up and away from his head. "At least the parties are over."

"I'm still disappointed that those Qunari didn't schedule one." He snaked an arm around her waist, pressing her against the fence between them. "Since we're going to honeymoon in Seheron and all."

"Just imagine a hundred Qunari all mumbling _asit tal-eb_ to each other—Ah!" His movements cut her off and if she had thought his body was solid and immovable all those years ago at her sixteenth name day celebration, she was clearly unfamiliar with the words as he lifted her from the ground, over the fence, and into his arms. He had become much stronger during his training, and though he was sticky, she paid no mind.

"Are you busy tonight?" he murmured into her hair.

"I think I'm reorganizing my underwear drawer," she whispered back, hoping the allure of lace was enough to tease him thoroughly. "You're welcome to help—"

As the words left her mouth, Corbinian took that moment to silence her with his lips. She pulled herself up against him and as the tips of her toes left the training yard dirt, a slight chill crept up her spine. She hadn't felt a breeze, but with Corbinian so close, she didn't feel much else. It took effort to break apart, and when they did, Corbinian leaned forward, resting his forehead against hers.

He whispered, "I'll be there after dark."

She curled her fingers in his hair, opening her eyes to see his Vael-blue looking right back. He always looked at her and she liked that, because in those blues she could see an entire world. A bright blue ball, warm and full of want, for her, for a family, for a life of adventure and romance, for private jokes and private moments, stolen away from everyone.

"You best not keep me waiting," she whispered in her best warning voice, though she was certain it was obvious that she would wait all night, all year, all her life.

"When have I kept you waiting?" He asked with that famous Vael ego.

"I'm always waiting for you," she answered quickly, not realizing how her prophetic words would come to shape her life.

He pulled her closer. "And I will always come. I promise." 


	16. 9:31 Dragon, Spring

**9:31 Dragon, Spring**

Samantha woke with a start. It wasn't a nightmare or Corbinian tapping on her window.

It was a loud, thunderous boom.

She sat straight up in bed, gripping the locket around her neck. All was quiet. The noise sounded familiar, and she prayed to the Maker that she hadn’t heard what she knew she just had. She let out another yelp, gripping the blankets of her bed when another loud boom erupted from somewhere in the city.

Fighting through the fear of both the known and the unknown, Samantha found the courage to get out of bed and tiptoe down the hallway. It was dark, but she could see lights flickering under the door of Innley's old room, though they did not seem to originate within–rather, they were coming from outside.

She crept inside, and darted towards the large window from which she could see across town, and, as her fingers met the cold windowsill, she could only stand there, frozen somewhere between panic and awe.

The Circle Tower was on fire. Smoke blacker than the night and as thick as honey poured upwards from its windows, heavy with cloudy sinew, like the fire wasn't natural. The smoke was so thick that she wasn't sure if it was produced by fire until a jut of flame stabbed at the air outside one of the windows—almost as if a dragon had breathed it—lighting up the sky and the tops of buildings all across the city for the split second, until the billowing smoke swallowed it back up again.

Her thoughts randomly shifted, lit by panic . Was she safe here? Where were her parents? Was Innley caught in the fire? Was Corbinian suited up in his armor, ready to charge into the tower, or was he already there? She tried to see the city below, looking for movement, but the smoke pouring out of the tower seemed to snake through all the streets, obscuring any hope of visibility.

_Tinkle tinkle._

Her hand rested on the glass as she pressed forward, trying to get a better look at the streets below when Samantha heard the sound. She couldn't focus on what it was, but rather where it came from. It came from the hallway. She heard something else, something that sounded like glass rolling over a smooth surface. These sounds were both familiar but unfamiliar because what could make those sounds? And they were in the _house_ …

She turned her back to the window, leaning against it, trying to stay away from the doorway that led to the hall. She knew something was wrong. Something was very wrong. Another boom from the Circle bellowed out across the city and she felt the shockwave through the window rattle her straight to the heart. The fear started to spread its roots through her limbs, and she wanted to cry.

Then she heard a soft whimper. And it wasn't hers.

Grasping the curtains, Samantha moved along the wall around the room which was still dark, only partially illuminated every time a stab of fire escaped the Circle to light up Starkhaven. Moving as fast as she could, which was actually quite slowly, Samantha inched towards the door, her bare feet padding on the plush rug of Innley's old room, reaching the doorway and gripping the side of the door for resolve, afraid if she let go of anything, she would simply fall and never stop. She didn't step into the hallway right away, only leaning around the corner to see clear to the opposite end before ducking back into the shadows. Although it was dark, there was a faint yellow glow coming from the room at the very end of the corridor. Her parents’ room.

_Tinkle tinkle._

What was that? Feelings of dread crept into her throat and perhaps as some kind of mental defense, her mind started to invent stories as she convinced herself to move down the hallway. Maybe her father had left their bedroom to find Samantha, and her mother had stayed behind, lighting a candle while she waited, explaining the soft light. But, of course, her father would find her bed empty. When she passed her bedroom and found it undisturbed, she knew that story was wrong. Everything was just as she had left it.

She passed by the stairs and briefly looked down. The darkness blanketed everything with transparent fuzz and it was difficult to see, but there were no guards. No servants. It was empty. She heard that sound again: the glass rolling. Followed by another whimper.

That small, barely audible sound gripped her and didn't let go. Her hands began to tremble, and her body wanted to stop—was screaming and shaking for her to stop—and she wanted Corbinian. She wished he was here protecting her instead of the city as the Oath of Starkhaven demanded. She had a fleeting thought that maybe she should leave her house, run to the royal estate and find solace under the protection of the royal guard. But if she couldn’t move down the hallway of her own house, how did she expect to move through a city under the siege of magic where the very streets caused blindness? No, she couldn't leave. She knew she must continue because whatever lay at the end of the hall, she couldn't in good conscience leave her parents alone with it.

Another boom sounded from somewhere in the city and Samantha could tell from the sound that it wasn't the Circle. It was somewhere else. Somewhere closer. Something was out there, and she hoped to the Maker and back that Corbinian was beating the holy hell out of it.

Taking a breath, her hand found the wall which became her new guide as she drifted towards the soft light, past the portraits and the picture of flowers where Innley had once been, past the lounges and the tables and finally to the open doorway where the scene inside revealed itself as she rounded the corner, like a curtain being drawn back.

The soft light was coming from the center of the room, or so she thought. Her eyes found the location but the source was concealed by a person blocking her view. She must have made some noise or something, because the man spun around and it was at that moment that she thought she was going to lose it.

"Innley?" she whispered incredulously, certain she was going mad.

"Well, hello there." He glared at her with eyes that glowed a poisonous green.

Tears spilled out, skipping off her cheeks like stones. "Wh-what are you doing here?"

"Making them seeeeee…"

Samantha was terrified by his tone. He didn't sound like Innley. His voice was somewhere deeper, creepier, almost like it was echoing inside his body before it left his mouth. He sounded like a— She didn't need to say it. She thought it and that was enough. Innley started to laugh.

"Figured it all out, sister?" He gave her a wide, crooked smile. His teeth were black and Samantha's mouth opened as she silently gasped for air, frozen with fear. "Did you come here to rescue them, then?"

Innley who was not Innley bore his horrible eyes into her and she couldn’t think of anything else to say except, "Where are our parents…?"

"They are not _my_ parents." Was that Innley? Speaking with another's voice? "They told me so! The Templars came and dragged me away and they asked for my name and they said _Innley_ and that was it. _Innley of Starkhaven._ That's what I have become."

Is that what he had become? His eyes glowed monstrously, and she could see that both his teeth and his tongue were black as death itself. From somewhere inside his mouth where the sounds were coming from, there an underlying growl as though somewhere inside Innley lay a vicious animal and all it had to do was get mad enough and it would stretch through his body, cracking bone and muscle until it was free from the confines of its flesh prison.

Innley took a step towards her. "They replaced all the pictures on the walls. They never visited me."

"I visited…" Her voice failed her, an echo of her courage.

"Yeeeeees." He drew out the word like a knife. "My pretty older sister did visit. With the help of her boyfriend. Now I remember."

He remembered? Had he forgotten? No, it's not Innley – _it's not Innley_! The very realization that he was not himself, that he was something else so very dark and from an entirely different realm of existence, those beings that the Grand Cleric always warned about, made Samantha nearly lose the semblance of control she had left. She was near hyperventilating now.

He took another step, and she heard the glass rolling again. "I didn't appreciate those visits."

_Tinkle tinkle._

Samantha's stomach started to tremor as she cried, little sobs that she was trying to hold in escaped and she couldn't look away from his horrible green glowing eyes.

He tilted his head and shifted his weight and it was then that she saw the light source. It was a sconce sitting atop a thick staff in Innley's hands. On the bottom of the staff was a small globe of obsidian and when he moved, the globe dragged across the floor producing a noise. The rolling glass.

Then the whimper, pitiful and agonizing and it was coming from above. Samantha's eyes instinctively turned upwards and when she did, all the air fled her lungs at once when she saw her parents, hanging – no not hanging – floating, suspended just beneath the crystal chandelier that hung majestically from the high ceiling. The crystal chandelier.

_Tinkle tinkle._

"You're hurting them..."

"Why shouldn't I? They abandoned me! They left me to die in that tower!" His movements were sporadic as he thrust his arm upwards, pointing towards their family.

"Please stop…" Samantha shook her head; she had no defense for them. She couldn't deny that they had made her angry at their actions as well.

"They will suffer! Just as I have suffered!"

"They don't know—!"

His eyes went wide, and in the dim light, she could see a swirling in his green pupils, something like liquid metal. "You are no different than them!"

"I tried—!"

"You tried to do what? Aside from summon me whenever you felt guilty enough to visit!"

She let out a small whimper, shaking her head.

"Have you one thought in that pretty little head that isn't selfish?" The hand that wasn't gripping the staff balled into a fist. "Did you ever consider that your visits were inconvenient? That they were insulting?"

Samantha took a step backwards, but he followed.

"You acted like nothing had changed but _everything had changed_!" Innley screamed.  "I put up with your visits because _I had no other choice_!"

"I didn't—!"

"No." He cut her off with finality that time, standing up tall with his terrible eyes blazing. "You didn't and you still don't know the horrors of that place. Perhaps you should be punished as well! You knew what they were doing to me and still you did _nothing_!"

"That's not—!"

" _LIAR_!" He reached out and grasped her neck hard in one hand, making her locket cut into her skin, and suddenly the air was gone, her body frozen in its last breath.

Samantha’s hands went up to his as he pushed her back against the wall, hard, knocking the breath from her. She scratched and struggled, trying to reach his face as he bared his teeth, growling at her like an animal. He lifted her higher and she kicked at the air until her vision began to blur... and then he let her go.

Her hands and knees hit the floor hard and, coughing through a raw throat, Samantha felt the incipient bruise on her throat where her locket had been pressed into her jugular. Her lungs burned as she tried and failed to breathe and cough at the same time, suddenly reduced to her base instincts of trying to survive and nearly collapsing from the exhaustion of learning how.

Innley lowered himself to one knee, hissing into her ear: "He wants to spare you, but you are a selfish, shallow waste of a life. He will understand."

Samantha could only cough again and again, believing that these breaths were probably going to be her last. Innley, or whoever this was, was going to kill her. After he killed her parents. She heard the rolling glass and looked up to see Innley's back.

"Who should I punish first?" he asked, as if it were an academic question, one that didn't involve pain and torture.

Samantha tried to speak, but her voice was raked over rocks.

"Do you think...?" He looked back at her over his shoulder, his head back-lit by the glow of his staff and he moved a little to his right, the obsidian ball rolling along the floor as he came to a stop underneath her father.

_No…_

The look on her face seemed to be a sadistic pleasure for him and he spun about, raising his hand in the air, and when he let out a loud yell, her father hit the floor hard. His eyes snapped open and when he focused on Innley, they said all there was to say. Terror. Abject terror. Innley sneered before he thrust the ball end of his staff through their father's chest.

She could hear the bones crunching, the muscles and flesh ripping, and the blood gushing forth. The noises her father made at that moment were worse than Samantha could have ever imagined and she covered her ears, curling up into a ball against the wall, her tears spilling out. She was certain she made noises of her own, trying not to hear her father's dying screams, the grunts and the gurgles under Innley's cruel laughter.

Samantha wailed then, covering her ears and her eyes and screaming something that she was certain resembled _no_ and _stop_ and _please_ but he just laughed and eventually her father stopped making those terrible noises and she couldn't look. She couldn’t look.

"One down…" She heard him hiss into her ear. "Two to go…"

She had to get out of there. She couldn't save her mother. She could only save herself or sit there and wait to die. This was the game. And there was only one way to play.

"Did you enjoy that?" he whispered and she could smell the death inside him, sweet and pungent like those decomposed rats that she and Innley had found in the cellar one year. "I can do other things. I can make them move if you want."

She would have to wait. She couldn't jump up now; he would have her in his hands, those disgusting bruised hands, before she made it to the stairs. She would have to wait and she hated that it was her mother's death that she would have to wait for.

"I can make her talk. What would you most like her to say?"

How long would this go on? How long would he draw out the torture of the moment to satiate his own desire for revenge? Samantha cracked open her eyes, but kept her body curled up again the wall.

_Tinkle tinkle._

"Me?" He touched his chest lightly. "I think I want to hear the truth. Finally."

She could smell the decomposition receding as he stood up and she allowed herself to peek up as he moved towards the center of the room. The roll of the glass ball stopped when he was directly beneath her mother and he smiled his blackened smile, the saliva dribbling from the corners of his mouth, black as oil.

Her mother whined again; this time it was evident that she was aware of her surroundings, because she eked out Samantha's name like an arrow to the chest.

" _Why did you leave me there_?" Innley raged from beneath her.

Samantha turned her eyes to the door, trying to gauge how far away she had been pushed from it.

"You were a shame to the family." Her mother's whisper was barely audible and Samantha looked up to see her face, tear-streaked and crumpled.

" _You left me! You abandoned me! Did you ever think about me?_ " That sounded like Innley.

"I tried not to…"

" _WHY?_ " His screaming was a raging pain drawn up from somewhere deep.

_Tinkle tinkle._

"Because magic is a sin."

"No…" His voice changed back to the sadistic creature that was enjoying all of this. "Abandoning your child to torture and solitude is a _sin_."

Samantha stood up slowly, as quietly as she could, keeping her gaze fixed on Innley.

"He returns now to show you of the damage that has been done, and only now do you weep. When it is _your_ life that has been so injured."

Her mother whined again.

"You think you are worthy of standing in judgment of _me_ , of your own child, but you fail to judge yourself." He turned about beneath her, incredulous and accusatory. "And _I'm_ supposed to be the evil one?"

Samantha held her breath as she reached her full height, placing a palm on the wall, hoping to give herself a push-off.

"You possess a soul. A heart. A life of emotion and dream and I am supposed to be the empty one. But if that's so, then tell me how it is that _I_ can see the inhumanity in _you_?" His staff rolled across the floor as he turned again, never removing his eyes from the ceiling and her mother. "I will _make_ you seeeee…"

As his blackened tongue hissed out the final sounds, he shot his arm upwards, his staff in hand and Lady Mayweather seized violently in mid-air. Samantha had to look away as Innley's arm swung around and their mother flew so forcefully through the air, her body slamming against the wall with a sickening crack as though her bones were crunched from the impact and it was at that moment that Samantha bolted for the door.

She couldn't hear anything but her own breathing as she made it into the hallway, knocking over a vase from a side table in her rush to turn the corner and she slid on the rug, her hands finding the banister of the stairs, swinging around and hurling herself down, her heels skipping along the steps. She crashed into the wall at the turn, but she didn't stop moving until she hit the door. She groped for the handle and pulled but it didn't move; she pulled again but it was locked and her hands fumbled with the latch until it turned. She heaved the door open and the night air filled with its acrid smoke assaulted her senses but it was _who_ was standing on her doorstep that shocked Samantha into a full stop.

It was Corbinian.

He was wearing his golden armor but his sword, One-Cut, was damaged, like the tip had been split down the middle and bent back in opposite directions. Long scratches littered his armor and there were several horrible-looking gashes on the side of his face. But he wasn't moving, nor did he seem to acknowledge her existence. He just stood there, his mouth slightly open and his eyes staring forward as if he were a walking corpse.

A creature stepped around the corner, with her purple horns and her metallic swirling eyes and that horrible girlish laughter that made Samantha realize that things in the city were much worse than she had thought.

And then everything turned black.


	17. 9:23 Dragon, Summer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The second half of this story will have chapters from Corbinian's point of view. This is the first.

**9:23 Dragon, Summer**

_Oh, Maker, my head is killing me. Stop, stop_ _…. I think I'm talking though I could be mumbling. Someone or something is poking me and, through very dry eyes and a hangover the size of the Amaranthine Ocean, I look up to see a pair of Royal Guards. Hugh and Keis, I think their names are. Oh, Maker, please make them stop yelling._

_Now they're carrying me – great, this is going to scramble my already tender stomach and without fail I heave but nothing comes up. I have a vague memory of vomiting earlier just before I had to sit down. I think Samantha and Sebastian were there, and then the memory sort of punches me in the face as I recall a few still images, like several paintings of a single scene: one moment followed by another a few seconds later, and then another. Sebastian has his hands all over her and I clench my jaw impulsively, almost too hard because the jolt resonates through my skull, making me dizzy. The next image is of Samantha trying to pull away, and then Sebastian is yelling, at least my memory tells me there is yelling, but I can't quite – oh the pounding, oh my stomach._

_Hugh and Keis aren't being unkind to me, but I'm no child. I've just turned sixteen and I am as tall and strong as any Vael and I do my best to try and walk on my own, but I can't even form coherent words._

_They deposit me on the floor of the main hallway of the Royal Palace. It's a curious place to put me, because I don't know what will happen if my parents see me, let alone the Prince of Starkhaven, my uncle. And then Sebastian is set down next to me. Like a gift. Perhaps "set" isn't the right way to describe it, as he is sort of slumped down, holding a cloth to his lip and now it hits me. She bit him. This bastard had his hands all over her and she was trying to get away and he wouldn't let her go and so she bit him. Ha! That's my girl. Well, okay, she's not my girl. At least not yet. I even told Sebastian this a few months ago while we were in the practice yard. I told him pointedly, even._

_I said, Samantha Mayweather is the girl for me._

_He laughed and said, She's more like a sister. We've known for her so long._

_I said, No, not her. She's the one._

_For one, she's beautiful. Delicate. Honestly, when people look at her, they don't look away. While she may not possess especially striking features like Arianna Marziano's high cheekbones or Flora Harimann's sultry eyes, she's still hands-down the most beautiful girl I've ever known. And then she opens her mouth to talk and I swear I've never heard a girl with such a tongue. I can't imagine ending up with some of these vapid idiots who talk of nothing but clothes and hair and flowers. What a waste. But, let's be honest, I'd also like to know what she looks like underneath all those clothes._

_I am remembering this conversation as I'm sitting_ _—well, okay, I'm slumped against the wall_ _—next to Sebastian and I can honestly say that I now know what murderous intent feels like because I'm so mad at him, not just for what he did to a girl, but for what he did to_ my _girl.  I know it's not necessarily proper to talk of girls as belongings or possessions, but I am fairly certain that the Maker put her on this world for me._

_Anyway, the sun must have risen while we were sitting here, because light is streaming through the windows that the servants are just now opening and Sebastian winces just like I do._

_Now, I should say that Sebastian is my best friend. While technically my cousin, he's always been my brother more than my actual brother and I've been his brother more than his own brothers and we both know this. This is probably why no one expects to find me punching him in the face, least of all me, but here I am. Punching him in the face. I am so angry, all I can see are his hands all over Samantha Mayweather._

_But he's Sebastian Vael and he's built like me, inside and out, and so he fights back. He gets in a good hook to my ribs and I feel a crack and then a jolt of searing pain shoots down my right leg, and then I think I repeat her name through my teeth or something because he looks up at me and says her name back. And then I say, How you could do that to her? and then I grab him and hit him good, right on the nose and now it's his turn to crack as a gush of blood erupts and just starts pouring down his shirt, which I have to say, used to be nicer than mine._

_He's holding his nose and he says, Do what? What are you talking about?_

_That's when I realize that he really doesn't know. He can't remember that he essentially forced himself on a girl –_ my girl – _and was rejected, and then blacked it all out in a drunken stupor. This multiplies my rage. I swear, if I had my sword in my hands at this moment, I really think that I would run him through. As it is, my fists begin flying again and the next thing I know there are more people involved in our fight, but they are trying to break us apart and_ _—my arms still swinging_ _—I am pulled off of Sebastian. Rather violently, in fact. But my own level of violence is escalating quickly and they have to restrain me, which is to say that I deserve what I get._

_We are separated then. I am thrown into my room and in the hours that follow, a parade of people come through. First my father who yells at me like I have never been yelled at before, which is to say, that I actually have never been yelled at before, because I am royalty and mostly I go unnoticed until it's time to show me off. Like a steer. It's a new experience. Then my mother comes in and she is so disappointed in me. At least she says so, but her voice actually sounds bored. Then the prince, and his is the worst because he mostly just stares at me. I swear that man could give speeches with just his eyes._

_I know that I sound glib, but in between bouts of wanting to kill Sebastian and being treated for what I am told are broken ribs, I am actually scared out of my head. I've never been in trouble before. I have my studies and my duties but I can get away with a lot in Starkhaven simply because I have the name Vael. Guards keep my secrets. Maids wash my dirty laundry. Elven servants who just want nothing more than to be able to feed their families are paid off. I know it's not honorable, but I never much cared. Until now, honor didn't concern me as much as getting what I wanted._

_It takes several days before the Prince of Starkhaven, Sebastian's father, calls us before him. He says that he intended to call us sooner, but he was so mad, he didn't trust himself not to make some rash decision, which is impressive because exile is seen by many as rash. Which is what he tells Sebastian he is thinking about doing. He says that he had been thinking about it for a while._

_I have known Sebastian since I was two, and we've been in trouble fairly regularly ever since, but I have never seen him afraid, the way he is now. Even under those black eyes that I have given him, he can't hide that he is as scared as me, and then Sebastian's father asks us to explain ourselves._

_Sebastian's explanation causes me to question whether or not I can maintain control of myself in front of the Prince of Starkhaven. He essentially apologizes for what he has been told he has done: jumping in the fountain of Andraste, public drunkenness, and running away from guards. He says it was foolish and indiscreet. When it's my turn, I explode. I yell at Sebastian. In front of the prince. In front of the princess. In front of Sebastian's brothers and their wives and my parents and Goran, too. About what he did to Samantha._ To my Samantha _. I think I actually say that. I call him no different than a rapist, for if she had not been able to fight him off, then he likely wouldn't have stopped. And then I scream at myself for my own inability to protect her. I am infinitely more cruel to myself than everyone else has been._

_For some reason, no one interrupts to calm me down. They let me rail against him and myself but they're listening. Perhaps for the first time ever. And as I look at them, and they look at me, I start thinking about how they want to exile Sebastian from Starkhaven, from our home. It hits me that they are considering this punishment for me as well. My mind starts to race. I have a million thoughts at once. I see a million different paths and a million different lives. I know that I can follow a single point or a thousand roads. I can run away no matter what the prince says, to the wilds or some far away land. Remake myself, become a hero or a thief. But I'm standing here, and the prince is looking at me and I swear, all I can think about is Sammie._

_I can be a million different things, I say, but I would be nothing without her._

_I swear, I had no idea I was such a romantic._

_While I am only sixteen and a year older than Samantha, everyone understands that this is a very serious admittance. We're like swans, the Vaels. When we mate, it's for life._

_And then out of nowhere, I get this crazy idea and I volunteer to take the Oath of Starkhaven as proof of my vow to make things right, and it's then that the prince's expression changes. I can't tell to what, almost appraising, I think. My parents, too. Everyone in the room. And Sebastian. It's like all the punches I gave him earlier were nothing compared to what I just said. He finally sees how he has offended her. And me. His brother. And I am left, my fists shaking at my sides and my face red with rage._

_My uncle asks me, Who would you take the Oath for?_

_I glare at Sebastian and say, I would take the Oath for Starkhaven to protect the Samantha Mayweathers from the Sebastian Vaels._

_It's pretty harsh thing to say to a brother._

_I think it is these words that sentence him to his fate, because he doesn't protest exile. In a state of shock, I stare at him, but he won't look at me. As his father's secretaries are leading him away, I don't understand what just happened. Why would he just leave like that? Why would he say nothing about his own culpability? He didn't even apologize._

_My uncle then says he expects me to honor the Oath of Starkhaven. If I can honor our family name._

_My father speaks up and says that we have family in Nevarra City, and I can't help but wonder what the hell he is doing, but then he offers to send me away for a year to live with the Pentaghasts. Now, aside from my aunt who is as wonderful as a summer's day, the Pentaghasts are a rather cold family. They are strict. Punctual? Though many might call them solemn, I prefer humorless. The intention is that a change in my environment will provoke a change in me, and perhaps make me realize what I have here at home. Maybe it will make me appreciate it, and in no small way does Samantha Mayweather figure into this, because I am sure that my impassioned words about her swayed some of the people in the room to believe I have some redeeming qualities._

_In a matter of days I am on the road with my father escorting me to Nevarra City._

_It's a nice city. A lot like home. Of course, the Pentaghasts could have a palace in the dirtiest shantytown in Ferelden and it would still be luxurious. The only real difference between Nevarra City and Starkhaven are the crypts. The people here bury their dead instead of burn them on a pyre, which is weird. What are they saving all these bodies for anyway? Memories? Respect? All those husks of people just sitting there in some giant mausoleum. It's disturbing and, besides that. it's morbid._

_Every day I think about writing a letter to Samantha, but I know that I am not allowed. Even if I could smuggle it out, what am I supposed to say? Wait for me? I know we were friends before, but if I ever make it back, want to be more? My aunt suggests writing poetry to recite when I get back, which is such a ridiculous suggestion that I can't even laugh, which makes me fit right in with this family._

_I understand that this opportunity is my last, and I am grateful that everyone here in Nevarra City is so invested in my education. I am given lesson upon lesson about history, Chantry doctrine, magic, sword-fighting, and hours and hours of survival skills. The Pentaghasts made their fortune by adventuring, specifically by hunting dragons, and you don't hunt dragons from palaces. You hunt them in the wilderness, in mountain ranges, across oceans and deserts. These skills have been passed down from one generation to the next. I would think about my family and Starkhaven, and Sebastian and Samantha more often if I weren't so immersed in the world._

_There is only one enemy to fight out here. It's not the loneliness or the hunger, the exhaustion or the elements. It's the will to go on. I have to find it. I have to keep moving. I am a link in a chain._

_My uncles and cousins go for hours without speaking. They listen to the wind and smell the dirt and we are conquerors of nature itself, finding our way with just our bodies and our minds. I find myself out here, which I think is what I was meant to find. I breathe in the air and exhale out my past and I am born again._

_It takes ten months for Sebastian to work up the courage to write to me._

_He wants to see me. He wants to apologize. In person. He says he hasn't written to Samantha, because he wants my permission, and he intends to apologize profusely. He prays to Andraste for forgiveness every night, he says. He's terribly lonely at the Chantry. He looks for company anywhere he can find it and that includes yet more girls whose names he can't recall. He misses our home. He has dreams of running away from Kirkwall, but he has no money and nowhere to go. He is lost._

_It occurs to me why he accepted exile: he is a coward._

_He couldn't face Starkhaven knowing what he had done. Ashamed and embarrassed, he couldn't stand in front of everyone, admit his sins, and then promise to make things right. Like I did._

_I don't know what he's expecting from me. Absolution? Understanding? Of course, I am angry, but he is my brother more than my own brother. Brothers fight and I am certain that this will not be our last. I am also certain that things will change eventually, and perhaps given time, Sebastian will find what the natural world has given me, and that is to say, a sense of self._

_I receive and write letters regularly to my father and mother, the only ones with whom I am allowed correspondence. The letters describe what they are hearing from the Pentaghasts about me, news of Starkhaven and the world, and the various things they expect from me when I return. That is, they are hopeful that the prince will allow me to return. They pray for me. They ask me if I am praying for myself, but I don't have to anymore. I am going to be all right._

_Sometimes Goran writes to me. His letters are really short. It's sort of infuriating, because he's not as dim as everyone thinks._

_Samantha never writes to me. I guess I was hoping that she would find a way, but it's more likely that she doesn't even know where I am. I swear to myself that I will do things right when I get back. I will talk to Sammie. I will ask her father if I may see her formally. I will treat her with kindness and respect. I will never lay a hand on her without her permission. I will be a gentleman. Well, okay, let's be honest, I can still be as crass as I always am, because she's as wicked as me and I love that. I wonder if she's seeing anyone, and I wonder if my year-long absence will change things. I think that I think too much about Samantha. I decide that it doesn't matter if anyone is interested in her. I'm a Vael and defeat doesn't run in my family._

_I am now proud of my name for different reasons._

_I used to loathe it, really, and Sebastian and I bonded over the shared frustration. People fawned over us like being royalty is some grand thing, but we always felt that while everyone else had the choice to make their own destinies, we did not. There is some truth to this. Sebastian's brothers_ _—one of whom will likely be prince one day_ _—are not given the choice. Sebastian liked to joke that his parents had "the heir and the spare" and there wasn't much left for him. Imagine what's left for cousins. Sometime during my adolescence, it was decided that I would lead the standing army of swordsmen and Sebastian, with his impressive skill with the bow, would lead the archery regiments; our skills demanded to protect the freedoms that we were never granted and the titles that we had come to loathe._

_But to have the choice – that's all we wanted. I suppose that's what we rebelled against all those years. We were wild like a pair of tomcats; sneaking out of our homes, drinking, whoring, fighting, and generally stamping out anything good about our family name. We thought our family full of hypocrites, fascists, and liars. We were reckless, but we didn't care about our own safety, seeing the end of our lives occurring at a fixed point in just a few years’ time when we were supposed to live up the family's expectations by assuming these roles._

_Now, I understand in retrospect how ungrateful I was for what I had._

_There is more freedom in my name that I once gave credit. I had the freedom to behave like a tomcat for one but, for another, I actually do have the freedom to choose my own destiny. I'm strong, an excellent fighter, and I've always enjoyed practice and getting better, and apparently I have a gift with words which will encourage men to follow my lead. I always had the freedom to be whoever I wanted to be, and I wasted so many years thinking that they were trying to define me, but that's cowardice. I choose who I am._

_That night in front of everyone, I chose Samantha and Starkhaven. Sebastian was incapable of making any choice at all, which now that I think about it, is not all that surprising. He's never been decisive._

_The prince finally arrives to see me. I am as nervous as an apostate in a room full of Templars, because I know that his visit will decide my fate. Will I get to go home? Will I be exiled forever like Sebastian?_

_We end up talking for hours. I've never really talked to him before, probably because I wasn't old enough. He tells me that he hears good things about me, not only from my parents but from the Pentaghasts as well. He tells me that he was very impressed when I volunteered to take the Oath of Starkhaven, which is a pretty old tradition and he was surprised that I even knew about it. I tell him that I still want to take it and I truly mean that. He instructs me to write a letter of apology to the Garritys for my behavior on their property that night, and I will dish it up gladly. Apologies of this sort are always for the receiver of such a note, and so I know that I will have to write a grandiose letter. It may be a pile of garbage in its embellishments, but if anything is clear from this past year, it's that I truly regret everything that happened that night._

_Then he tells me that I can come home which brings both relief and elation – home! He has big plans for me, though. He still wants me to embrace my responsibility to our home and earn the title of Captain of the Royal Army, and I am grateful to be given the opportunity. This isn't a title or position that is given to just anyone, and again I feel ashamed of how selfishly I behaved._

_I ask about Sebastian, but he tells me that his third son isn't ready to come home and isn't sure if he will ever be. He's still willing to give Sebastian a second chance! I suppose I shouldn't be surprised, because he gave me one. All I had to do was ask for it. Part of me feels like writing to Sebastian and telling him, but I know that I won't. For some reason, it makes me angry to know that while he wallows in his misery in Kirkwall, lonely for his family and his home, all he has to do is apologize and ask to come back, and yet he doesn't do that. It's pathetic that he is so unsure of himself that he can't even make the argument._

_And then my uncle tells me about Samantha._

_I am a Pentaghast in this moment. I am silent. I never look away._

_He tells me that she doesn't know where I have been for the last year. No one in Starkhaven knows, as the royal family and everyone with any knowledge has been sworn to secrecy, so that I would be truly disconnected from my home. He said that he intended for no one to know Sebastian's whereabouts either, but Sebastian told a servant or something as he was ushered out of town and within a few hours everyone in Starkhaven knew._

_During this year, the prince has followed my Samantha closely. He even assigned someone to watch her and judge her worthiness of a Vael – imagine that! As if she has to work to deserve me and not the other way around. He also tells me that Samantha is the kind of girl who will need protecting because she cannot fight harsh battles on her own. She is a smart girl and a survivor, and while biting the lip of a drunken amorous boy might get her out of a little trouble, she will never be able to fight her way out of something big. Someone else will have to fight for her. I have no trouble with this, obviously I will fight for her but he insists on this point. He also says that if I take the Oath of Starkhaven, I cannot abandon the city to save her. No matter what. It occurs to me now what he is saying._

_The Oath of Starkhaven is a pledge of fealty to the safety of the city and all of its citizens. If there should be some disastrous event, like a Blight, a dragon attack, or the Circle Tower explodes, my responsibility is to fight whatever is attacking the city. I am bound by the Oath and my honor to fight until the threat is dead or I am dead. I cannot abandon this cause to serve my individual needs, to save my family, to save myself, and I cannot leave my duty to save Samantha. This is part of the Oath. If I should break the Oath, it is a crime punishable only by death. There are no exceptions._

_I tell him that I still want to take the Oath. Starkhaven. Our home. Its safety is equal to hers. These are more important than my life. He is pleased by my answer._

_Then he mentions Innley, and I am quite stunned when he tells me that he is now in the Circle. While I'm processing this information – my friend, Innley, a mage – he is telling me how he finds Samantha’s family to be of good breeding, but the recent news about her brother being a mage is marginally troublesome. While the curse of magic runs in all families, he says recent studies suggest that curse is stronger in the father than the mother. This is somewhat of a relief I guess, though it feels strange to be talking about this particular subject now and I tell him that I am not even sure she'll have me._

_He just smiles._

_He tells me how difficult the last year has been for her. How the nobles of Starkhaven have not been especially kind and there have been rumors about what really happened that night between me, Sebastian, and her. Her family combats these rumors and she isn't intimidated by them which suggests again that her family is of good character. He tells me that over the course of the year, when she has been able to speak to my parents and to Goran, she asks about me. She told Goran she missed me. He says that he is impressed that she would stand by me even as the rumors fly about her own reputation._

_I can't really put into words what this means to me, but my whole body is alive in this moment. She asks about me! She misses me! The words ring in my ears all the way back to Starkhaven and when I arrive late in the night, there is no ceremony. There is no contingent of guard waiting nor will be there a welcoming-back party. I have paid a penance for my sins, which doesn't deserve a celebration._

_The next morning as I am dressing for service, all I can think about is what I am going to say to her when I see her. How much does she remember? How much is proper for me to say? Should I mention Sebastian? Would this embarrass her? Maybe I could try to come up with something clever, something witty, something that will get her attention, but the truth is that I don't need to. I know her and she knows me. Maybe I'll think of something better when I'm in the moment, but it might be as simple as "Well, hello there."_


	18. 9:31 Dragon, Spring

**9:31 Dragon, Spring**

Hues of pink and lavender colored the blurry images as Samantha opened her eyes. Her back was warm. Her chest was cool. Her head was filled with after-images that made no sense.

It took a few moments to wake, to push herself up from the cool grass and sit upright, squinting hard under a high sun. There was dirt on her nightdress and in her eyes and mouth, and she pawed at her face before she coughed it out, but the pain that ached from her neck down her chest made her stop almost immediately. Reaching up to her neck, she now felt the immediate tenderness and soreness and then she remembered.

She licked dry lips with a dry tongue and blinked dry, dusty eyes.  When she dragged a hand across the sore, crackling lids, she momentarily forgot the terror of the memory, because as she blinked, clearing her vision, she could see that she was in the middle of a field of wildflowers and there was an enormous tree not far away. She coughed again without being able to help it and stopped again almost as fast from the pain. The grass was tall, but she could see just over the tips of the soft browns, taupes, and greens of the foliage. Looking up into the sunshine was followed by immediate dizziness. Looking down to the dirt was followed by a lurch in her stomach. There were tiny flowers crushed under her. Pink and lavender.

It took a bit longer to work up the ability to stand, and as she tried, she realized how thirsty she was. How hungry she was. How dirty she was. How bruised she was. Inspecting herself, she found yellowish-green splotches on her knees implying the bruises were many days old, and the memory of falling hard onto her parent's bedroom floor reminded her how much that had hurt… n every possible way. She found another bruise on her arm about halfway up to her shoulder, a long gash that was red and itching that stretched the length of her other arm, and while she couldn't see her back, she imagined there was a bruise there as well, given how much it ached. But her throat—her throat was the worst of it.

Once standing, she staggered a bit, her on her legs feeling too flimsy to support her as she turned about. A hand over her brow to shield the too-bright sunshine revealed her true surroundings and she saw off in the distance a city. It had to be Starkhaven. The chantry's spires were visible from the field.

Corbinian flashed across her memory like lightning and Samantha had a thought that maybe he was in the field with her somewhere, but her search proved fruitless, not just because she was so tired, not because of the pain, and not because her head swam with thirst and hunger, but because the field was too big for her to search on her own. She would have to send some guards out to search for him.

So she did the only thing she could: she started walking back to Starkhaven. Though the city was on the horizon, it turned out to be much farther than she anticipated; it took her more than an hour to reach it. During the trek, she had plenty of time to think. To remember every moment that lingered painfully, punctuated with images and smells and sounds and horrors too terrible to dwell on and more than once. She fell to her tender knees to vomit but just ended up dry-heaving because her stomach was empty. When she reached up to hold her neck again – the pain and soreness was unbelievable – she realized that the skin was bare. The locket was gone.

A bout of panic seized her aching throat, and she spun about on those painful knees, looking back at where she had come from, trying to remember if she had seen the locket on the ground where she woke up, but she remembered only the flowers beneath her. There was no locket there; it would have been shining out like a beacon under the glare of the sun. Maybe it was back at her estate. Maybe it was somewhere in between. Her mind began to search places far away that were surely disturbed in her absence – however long that had been.

Finding strength she didn't know she had, Samantha dragged her feet across the cool underbrush of the field, and each step took more effort than the last. Occasionally she stepped on something that hurt like a sharp twig or a rock.

But nothing hurt as badly as her heart. Because of Innley. There was no use pretending that he could be saved. He was an abomination. _There is no cure for possession._ The Grand Cleric's words rang in her head like the chantry bells, sermons flying across her youth like warning flags, one after another peppered with words like _abomination_ and _demon_ and _monster_. And it was all true, Samantha thought.

Her withered body wouldn't release tears as she remembered her father, and the last look in his eyes before he…. And her throat wouldn’t allow any wailing when she wondered how long her mother lived after Innley— Samantha couldn't even say the words inside her own head. Her body would have let her fall to the earth and into the arms of the Maker, but Corbinian was out there somewhere and she had to go back to Starkhaven to organize a search party.

 _Starkhaven_.

She remembered the thick black smoke pouring from the Circle tower and the streets blanketed in the smog, and she considered the possibility that it might not be safe to return. She worked through the logic of going back, but there was no other choice, really. She would likely die of dehydration if she didn't get something to drink in the next day. There was only one way to survive and if that meant walking into a demon-filled death trap… well, perhaps her death would be a kindness. So while Samantha wasn't sure He was still watching over her, she placed her life in the hands of the Maker, and prayed to Andraste to convince Him to let her live.

Once she made it to the cobblestone path that led to the eastern gates of Starkhaven, she knew that it was safe. For one, there were guards posted on the parapets and several more were milling about on the drawbridge, pointing off to the ramparts in the far distance and then out into the fields beyond the city's gates. As if they were in recovery mode. A guard must have spotted her ambling towards the gate, because someone ran out to meet her arriving quickly.

Samantha didn't recognize the woman, and she was wrong about assuming she was part of the Starkhaven city guard. She was a Templar.

"Oh, you're in bad shape. Come on, then." The woman lifted Samantha like she weighed nothing, carrying her to the group of other Templars and before Samantha let herself pass out, she heard a male Templar say, "Hey, I know her…"

_Mercury eyes. Purple horns. The clang of metal against metal. The shuffle of a dozen footsteps. Laughing. Endless laughing_ _…._

She didn't know how long she slept, but she woke up in a dark room, on a soft bed, underneath a set of white sheets. There was a glass of water and a bit of bread on the table next to her and she took several gulps before her stomach started to lunge in protest and she instinctively stopped. As she nibbled on the bread, she heard voices in the hallway.

"Where did she come from?" a man asked, and his accent was Orlesian.

"Not sure, ser," a woman said. "She was walking from the east. Nothing out there but grass and dirt."

"Has she been evaluated?"

"Yes, ser. She is no mage."

"That's not what I meant." There was a long stretch of silence, and then: "All right. See what she knows."

"Me?" the girl asked, surprised.

"Yes," came the forceful reply. "You."

"I thought you would—"

"Do I need to ask someone else?"

"No, ser!" Her voice changed to obedient. "Right away, ser."

The man's heavy footsteps could be heard as he took long strides down the hallway and then the female Templar appeared in the doorway. Her figure was clearly smaller than the armor she was wearing and she shrugged a little, adjusting her pauldrons. When she spoke, she sounded formal.

"You're awake, then? That's good."

"Where—?" Samantha's voice cracked and she reached over to take more sips of water.

"You're in the chantry." The woman walked into the room and Samantha could see her face a bit more clearly. Her blonde hair stopped just short of her shoulders and a shelf had been cut to fall just above her striking blue eyes. Her skin was a few shades lighter than Samantha's, marking her as a foreigner to Starkhaven. "I'm Ruvena. What's your name?"

Swallowing the gulp of water was an effort, but she managed, rasping out, "Samantha Mayweather."

"Mayweather?" Ruvena seemed alarmed.

She thought she might start crying when Ruvena said her name. She was now the last Mayweather.

Ruvena reclaimed her composure. "How do you feel?"

Samantha lifted her hand to her neck; it was still tender, but the soreness was greatly improved "Better than… before," she finished quietly.

Her throat was on fire, and she took another gulp of water.

"A healer has been in to see to your injuries. It looked like you were… choked. Beat up."

Samantha nodded through the memory and then she frowned. "Beenie."

"Sorry?" Ruvena stepped closer, not recognizing the epithet.

"Corbinian Vael." Samantha eked out his name. "I was with him… the last I remember…"The Templar’s expression changed then as she stood up a little straighter, taking a very deep and long breath. "I'm sorry, but I need to ask you a few questions."

"Corbinian—!"

Ruvena looked distinctly uncomfortable.

" _Please_! Check the field—!" Samantha broke down into a fit of coughing before she could finish.

The Templar's gaze darted to the door. "I'll… I'll have someone check."

"He could be dying!" she croaked, past the pain in her throat.

"Okay, okay!" Ruvena held out her hands, and she looked panicked. "I'll be back."

When she left, Samantha curled up against the pillow, feeling no relief as she drifted off into a restless dream of Innley, his black teeth razor sharp and his jaw opening wide, trying to devour her. She wanted to move, but she just stood there unable to move, and then she could hear the laughing again in all of its agonizing glory and Samantha shot up, bringing her hands to her eyes. There was a woman in a Chantry robe that just held her as she cried, whispering calming things, but the images were burned into her mind and she tried to keep her eyes open as long as she could so she didn't have to see them again.

Days passed, and healers came and went. Sisters arrived to pray, but Samantha just cried more at their impassioned words to the Maker. Beautiful words, sometimes in song and other times spoken in whispers, about love and forgiveness, about reliance and strength. She asked about Corbinian, but none of the sisters had any answers.

On the fourth day, a former member of the Starkhaven Royal Guard who was now a Templar recruit, named Hugh, arrived to inform her that they had searched the field in which Samantha had woken up, but found nothing. He also came to ask her questions, though the term _ask_ wasn't as clearly defined as Samantha thought. Hugh's interrogation, about mages and demons and what she remembered, prompted a fit of hysterical weeping that convinced everyone that Samantha had not aided the escaping mages.

Despite her personal tragedy, she learned that many of the nobles of Starkhaven had suffered similar tragedies. Arianna Marziano and her mother had survived by locking themselves in their wine cellar. Lord Marziano had donned his armor and his bow and stayed upstairs to protect his family. They never saw him again; no corpse, no sign of trouble, no nothing. It was like he had just disappeared into thin air. The Garritys, the Fortneys, and the widow Lady Preston had all survived with their own contingents of guards protecting their estates. The Luxleys had taken shelter beneath their home and barely survived the night, for they would later describe nightmarish sounds that came from the other side of their barricade. No one would ever doubt them once the door to the shelter was examined, because it was covered from one end to the other in long, deep gashes that resembled claw marks. Lord Kendall had passed away during the tragic evening; the stress caused his heart to simply stop.

It was Ser Traven who told her about the Vaels.

Samantha would have thought her tragedy the worst: her mage brother coming back to kill her parents right in front of her, but that was before she heard that the entirety of the Vael family had been brutally murdered. Down to the last child. The prince. The princess. Both of their sons. Their sons’ wives. Their sons’ children: four in total, ranging in age from two to seven. And both of Corbinian's parents.

Goran Vael was the lone survivor.

Corbinian was thought to have died in the Circle Tower, but the lack of a corpse and Samantha's account of seeing him on her doorstep that night contradicted these reports. After an investigation, the official story of his death was changed to possession. It was a fate that seemed entirely implausible to Samantha; Corbinian was strong, a fighter, he would never succumb to a demon. Ever. But her Beenie never came to the Chantry. He never sent any letters or flowers and no one had seen him.

He couldn't be dead. Samantha's mind refused to believe what her heart wrenched over, wracking her body until she couldn't take it any more.

When she wasn't tortured by Innley in her nightmares, she was haunted by Corbinian at every turn. Corners of the chantry that they had snuck into, phrases and memories that surfaced about the past, the future. She looked at her hands and saw them without his, she watched the bruises on her body heal and felt pangs of sorrow, because they were the last remnants of the time she had with him – no matter that she couldn’t remember. And she fought hard to remember them, tormented with her eyes both open and closed because the answers were so clear in her dreams and left so quickly when she rejoined the waking world. She wanted to live her life asleep, comforted by memory alone. She routinely woke up screaming, managed to lose more weight before they put her on a special diet to make her gain it back, and couldn't talk without either crying or vomiting.

The horrors, the memories, the dreams. It had become a jumble in her mind. What was real and what was imagined? Was she awake? What did it matter when both were a different version of the same horror?

The healers said she was traumatized, and the physical symptoms were manifestations from her emotional and psychological trauma. They threw around big words. Samantha thought that maybe her body was alive, but her spirit was with Corbinian, and she felt angry that the Maker would spare her but take her Beenie to place at his side. No, he wasn't dead; was he?

They told her that four days had passed after the destruction of the Circle before she turned up outside Starkhaven's gates. Four days. Just gone. Several mages who were gifted with insight offered to help her, but she thought of Innley every time she saw someone's hands glow and refused. Fortunately, the healers didn't need to see her anymore, because after the first bout of screaming, they never came back. She had ignored Grand Cleric Francesca's warnings about magic and mages before. She would heed them now.

Ser Traven came to visit her often. His was the voice she heard at the city gates when Ruvena carried her back through. Ruvena wasn't actually a Templar, Samantha learned later. She was just a recruit and she and several other recruits, including Hugh, had left for Kirkwall shortly after that day she visited Samantha in the chantry. Because the Circle Tower had burned down, there was nowhere to put the mages, therefore it was quickly decided by the Chantry that those mages that remained would be sent to neighboring cities until the Starkhaven Circle could be rebuilt. In a matter of days, the Chantry of Orlais sent reinforcements to the city where they would accompany mages and Templars from Starkhaven to other cities: Nevarra City, Kirkwall, Tantervale, and Ostwick. It was a manageable affair, mostly because more than two-thirds of the mages in the Starkhaven Circle had either died or escaped.

That list of escapees included the name, _Innley of Starkhaven_.

Samantha did not correct the surname. Whatever he was, he wasn't her brother anymore, and the only person who knew this was Ser Traven. Samantha was grateful for a familiar and strong presence, because no matter how many times others came to visit her, mages were less terrifying when there was a Templar around.

She stayed at the Chantry for a little while, because she no longer had a home. After the destruction of the Circle, a thorough search of the city had produced a list of all those who still lived, the identified dead, and those who were presumed dead. They had named it the Survivor's Index, but everyone had been calling it The List. Samantha's name turned up on the _presumed-dead_ list along with Corbinian's, given the state of their respective families and eyewitness accounts, thus her estate had gone into probate. She had spent another ten-day in the chantry before someone thought to reverse her status to alive, which then caused a stir throughout Granite Circle.

Two days later, she was told that Goran Vael had come to see her but she had been sleeping and he had insisted the sisters not wake her. She figured he had come to talk about Corbinian.

A day after that, a broad-shouldered woman with long hair as black as the night came to visit. She wore the uniform of the Starkhaven Royal Guard and called herself Keis but also held the title of Specialist – the only one with such a title. She claimed to have fought beside Corbinian the night the Circle tower was destroyed, before everyone had become separated in the smoke, but her visit wasn't sentimental; she was there at the behest of Goran Vael. The new Prince of Starkhaven. The person who had appropriated Samantha’s estate.

Her family's belongings were being catalogued for auction because the city needed funds to recover, and since everyone thought there was no living heir—and Samantha's uncle had been absent for so long that it was assumed he was either dead or he had no interested in the estate. Her family's estate was frozen, and she couldn't even step inside her once-home. Samantha's return to life had halted all of that. She was informed by members of the Chantry that she would need to start some formal bureaucratic process to reclaim her estate.

During her recovery, all the nobles of Starkhaven sent her cards offering her a home and near-royal treatment – they still considered her royalty, despite the lack of a wedding. Perhaps it was because they loved Corbinian more than Goran. He had been the taller one, more handsome, the stronger, the fighter, he had more confidence, and of course he had taken the Oath. Many were as distraught as Samantha at his passing, at least they made it seem that way.

While she healed, Samantha spent her time in the chantry figuring out what to do. The sisters and brothers told her not to rush herself; the answers would come, but she needed to grieve. It was not comforting to hear them say that she needed to feel pain. They were supposed to give her comfort but instead implied that they couldn't heal her despair.

"You should eat more," Traven said one day, sitting down next to her in the chantry's pews. He had stayed behind with the Knight Commander and First Enchanter Raddick to help rebuild.

It wasn't a day of service, but Samantha often spent her days in the Chantry pews, staring up at the statue of Andraste. A monumental pile of stone sculpted to look like a person. Samantha sometimes felt envious of her – she had been blessed with death at the moment she lost everything that mattered to her.

"We just need to find out what she likes." Keis took a seat on the opposite side, and Samantha wasn't sure why she was hanging around but felt too apathetic to dwell on it. "Hugh always liked oranges. Sometimes they would have some in the kitchen at the royal palace – you know how Lady Vael loved those mimosas—?" Traven smiled as he nodded. "We used to hang out in the kitchen and swipe slices. Man… I'd kill for an orange."

"They don't have oranges anymore?"

"His Highness doesn't like them," Keis stated this as a matter of record.

Samantha turned a set of tired eyes to Keis, "Goran likes desserts. If you find one made with oranges, he'll have them imported."

"She speaks!" Traven grinned.

"It's a miracle."

"Praise Andraste!"

Samantha gave a small smile.

"Careful," Traven warned. "Your face might crack."

But it already had. A thousand tiny cracks that traveled the length of her body and at any moment a breeze would sweep through the room and waft Samantha away, piece by piece.

"Now make her eat something, Keis. I'll see you later, kid." Traven placed a metal-gloved hand on her shoulder before he left. It was cold and heavy.

"The prince asked me to check on you." Keis' voice made the task sound routine.

"Goran?" This seemed strange to Samantha.

"High Highness," she corrected. "He wants to make sure you're taken care of."

"I've had many offers from the nobles about town."

"He wanted me to relay that the palace is open to you."

"So he sent a guard?" Samantha had a passing thought that the Prince of Starkhaven likely had an arsenal of squires and pages at his disposal to deliver all sorts of mundane messages such as this one.

"I'm not _a_ guard – I'm _your_ guard."

Well, of all the strange news that had been floating across the city, this had to be the strangest. Why would Goran assign Samantha her own personal guard? Keis' face was stone just like Andraste's, unreadable, and it didn't seem like she was going to volunteer any information.

Samantha sighed at having to ask, "Why?"

Keis never hesitated before she spoke. "If His Highness saw fit to assign me the sole responsibility of safeguarding your life, then he must have his reasons. Perhaps you should ask him."

"I'm asking you."

"He didn't order me to answer your questions. This is a courtesy."

She was so rude! "I don't need a guard."

Keis looked up at the statue of Andraste where Samantha's gaze had been affixed for weeks. Her smooth stone face, her blank stone eyes—no pupils, no eyelashes—her mouth an unwavering line, and her hair covered by what looked like a robe or a shroud. She was frozen in time. Who she was when she died was how she had always been and always would be. Everything before and after her death was wrought in an ever-changing landscape of politics and geography, of faith and violence, of slavery and dragons, of a world that Samantha felt so unrecognizable, she couldn't even begin to fathom it. Just as the world was now.

And then Keis asked, "Do you think anyone truly loved Andraste before she died?"

Samantha's eyes widened – Keis was speaking blasphemy, or she was about to.

Keis continued, still looking up at the statue: "Her parents? Not her husband. Maybe her followers, but they could have just been following a cause."

"This is the chantry—!" Samantha's hissed, and she couldn't believe that this woman would openly question Andraste's followers.

But when Keis turned back, Samantha regretted ever crossing her for her moss-green eyes were thick with intent and her voice was darker than a nightmare. "Because clearly, no one ever loved her enough to guard her with their life, to sacrifice themselves in order to save her from that stake. She died surrounded by people who hated her and a man who took pity on her."

Samantha shrunk into the pew – who was this woman?

"Someone loved you enough to ask me to die for you and I accepted the responsibility as my duty to the city of Starkhaven, to the prince, His Royal Highness, and to my friend and captain, Corbinian Vael." Her eyes narrowed, burning holes into Samantha. "You may ask why and you may even get an answer, but do not tell me my duty is unnecessary, that forfeiting my life for yours is frivolous. It is an insult."

Samantha was afraid to speak but managed to whisper, "I'm sorry."

Keis turned those eyes back to the stone statue of the prophetess. "Andraste killed thousands of people on her Exalted March to free slaves – as she had been a slave. And though the world demonized her at the time, she held onto her conviction even though they eventually killed her for it. Just like those mages did." And then she added, importantly: "Just like Innley did."

The fact that she was comparing the renegade, murderous mages to the prophetess Andraste was shocking, but that name was a knife to Samantha’s gut: Keis knew about her brother.

"That kind of conviction, that blind devotion to an ideology, it can lead someone to do all sorts of things." Her voice matched her gaze, steady and threatening. "Things like return to a city to hunt down those they didn't kill the first time around. To find and destroy all that they blame for their lot in life. Can you think of anyone with that kind of intent?"

Samantha thought of Innley: he had intended to kill her that night. It was part of the plan, yet she had ran from that room to find Corbinian on her doorstep with that— What that was, Samantha didn't want to believe. Maybe mages could come back, maybe demons who had been cheated would come back, maybe assassins sent in their place… These scenarios seemed outrageous and frightening.

"Suffice to say…" Keis leaned back in the pew, as though satisfied at having terrified Samantha into submission. "The prince would see that you continue to live."

"But the city is safe now. It's secure," Samantha dared to say.

Keis' eyes drifted to the corners, to Samantha. "This is not over. There will be more deaths. Just not yours."

And at Keis' words, Samantha slumped down in the pew, crumbling into a ball and trying not to cry in front of Andraste, who never cried, who never screamed in fear, who never even resented being burned at the stake.


	19. 9:31 Dragon, Summer

**9:31 Dragon, Summer**

Even the Maker's sun shining over the bright green gardens brought Samantha no joy. The curtains had been drawn wide, no longer allowed to shade her from the harsh, beautiful world, and all was quiet but for the soft scratches of Lord Garrity's quill into his books. Every so often, he would turn a page.

The study was her common place, and staring lifelessly out the window at yet another garden was the only hobby she had. The lack of rain turned most gardens to graveyards, but not the Garritys’. It looked like a painting, matte and false as the servants labored to keep the colors vibrant. Samantha found their movements fascinating as they lumbered to and fro, their backs hunched from the large planks of wood that sat heavily across their shoulders, pails hanging from the ends, sloshing with brown water. Men as skinny as sticks carried them while withered, worn women removed the pails and poured water here and there, methodically moving about from shrub to shrub. The servants would do this each morning until every last flower and tree in the Garrity’s gardens had been sufficiently wetted and forced to live, to endure the elements of the world which worked against them in every way. Keeping alive what should be dead. Samantha wondered if that was true of her.

Lord Garrity tapped his quill against the inside of an ink bottle. They rarely spoke.

With all the survivors without homes, and with all the newly made orphans, the Chantry had grown crowded. Because she had offers for a home, Samantha had been kindly and gently kicked out. Lady Pentaghast had sent a special courier with more than a dozen packages – clothes, jewelry, portraits of the Vaels, and hidden inside the pocket of a long velvet coat, a handwritten note offering her a home – but Samantha felt a familial obligation to get her estate back, so she needed to stay in Starkhaven. Goran wanted her to stay at the palace, but she didn't know Goran that well and the palace was enormous, an empty tomb filled with the ghosts of her once-future family. Several other families had offered her their estates as well, and any one of them would have been a fine choice, but it was Lord Garrity she had chosen.

He had practically begged her to stay at his estate, explaining that he felt he owed it to Corbinian. He claimed that he had never formally accepted Corbinian's apology for that incident on the Garritys’ estate grounds so long ago, and he could make amends by helping Samantha, whom he referred to as _Corbinian's widow_.

 _Widow. Like Lady Preston._ Samantha felt tired.

Her first instinct was to turn him down because she didn't know his family as well as some others, but when he showed her the letter of apology he had received from Corbinian all those years ago, she had latched on and refused to let go. There were so many tiny mementos that were out of reach or gone, like her locket. All the letters Corbinian had written were stuck in a house that she couldn't access, but that letter, those words, they were real. It was like holding a piece of him in her hands; those words to someone else written in formality.

Lady Garrity had left for the year to stay with family in Orlais because _she needs time to recover from the horrible ordeal_. Samantha would have felt irritation if not for the weariness that consumed her.

Still, she received visitors and did her share of visiting other estates. Lady Luxley wanted to wax poetic on grief and death because of her daughter Helena, a loss that still haunted her. Vincent Tyler and his sister Gwendolyn were polite but not warm. In fact, Vincent's eyes were like steel curtains and Samantha imagined that he hated her because of Innley and Helena. Rumor had it that Helena hadn’t been dating a Templar, but rather sneaking into the Circle to see Innley. That must have galled Vincent something awful, but Samantha could never tell. She had wanted to visit Arianna, but she’d lost her father the night of the Circle Tower's destruction, and her mother had taken her to Antiva to finish the year in mourning with the only family they had left.

It was well known that Arianna and her father had been quite close, but Samantha never would have guessed at how much. When she was a little girl, Arianna's father would take her riding with him, and had a special saddle made so she could sit between his legs. When she was only twelve, they took a three month trip around the Free Marches, visiting every landmark that ever was, and to name a few: Urzara's tomb, the birthplace of the elven Grey Warden Garahel, the Twin Gates of Kirkwall, the blood-stained cobblestones of Ayesleigh, and Adain's home, preserved for tourists just outside of Markham. During her sixteenth year, Arianna's father had commissioned a large luxury yacht and sailed them as far south as Denerim and as far north as Rivain, stopping in Antiva to visit her birthplace where, upon docking, the young girl and her father had watched two men butcher each other over the price of fish.

Often, Arianna had said, her father would kick the servants from the kitchens and drag her into making some elaborate dish, just the two of them, throwing flour at each other and sneaking sweets from the cupboards. They spent parts of every day together, talking for hours as he never seemed to tire of hearing all of the things his daughter had to say. It was no wonder that Arianna's father had stayed in the house to fight off whatever came, hiding away his family and his prized daughter so they would not suffer a similar fate. There was still no word from him, not a whisper, not a corpse.

Samantha was in awe of Arianna's stories, and tried to imagine her own father like that, but the only image she could conjure was of a grumpy man who was more concerned with her appearance, physical and social, than the thoughts in her head.

Loud clacking footsteps against the hardwood floors turned Samantha's attention to a small boy in the doorway. "Your Lordship," the boy said, his voice pitched high with youth. "A visitor."

"Show her in," Lord Garrity grumbled, not even looking up. He knew who the visitor was.

Royal Guard Specialist Keis was ever punctual.

She came to the estate regularly, inspecting Samantha, inspecting the grounds, inspecting Lord Garrity's guards, staying most mornings and all afternoons. Keis probed her for information about her health and well-being, followed her everywhere she went, evaluated each room before she entered, and likely reported her every word to Goran. When the visits got out to the nobles of Granite Circle, speculation began about a change in the tide of Goran's affections from Flora to Samantha. It made Samantha angry to hear these rumors, but she wasn't sure why.

"Lord Garrity." Keis stepped into the room and bowed her head in respect, but the lord of the estate just grumbled again. He had no say in the matter, and aside from the outward tolerance of Keis' presence, he never spoke a word about it.

"Lady Samantha." Keis bowed in her direction. The Royal Guard Specialist was formal, too. She never addressed Samantha in any other fashion and always gave short answers when asked questions. That day in the Chantry was the most she had ever heard Keis say.

"Hello, Keis." Samantha hadn't talked much all day and her voice came out quieter than she intended.

And thus began the battery of the same questions she had asked the day previous, and the day previous to that, and previous to that, and every day since Samantha had left the Chantry.

"You are well?"

"Yes."

"Any visitors?"

"No."

"Any post?"

"No."

In fact, Samantha had received no letters at all. Rumors were that no one was receiving any mail. Samantha had written a few letters, and it was agonizing that none had responded. At first, finding out that no one was receiving any letters was a relief, but it didn't take long for the frustration to settle in. She was intensely lonely. She missed her family. She missed her friends. She would have given anything to hear Flora's voice.

Benjamin was another story. He wasn't the most delicate speaker, especially when he brought the good news. Keis tensed at the ruckus coming up the stairs, but relaxed when they all heard the young Garrity laughing as though everything was once again right in the world. A servant boy opened the large doors of the study to announce him, but was cut off rudely."It's over!" Benjamin panted in the doorway, hunkered down with his hands on his knees.

Lord Garrity didn't look up. "What's over?"

Benjamin swallowed, standing back up with his hands on his sides. "The Blight! It's over!"

That made Lord Garrity look up. "What?"

"The Wardens! They live!"

Samantha shook her head. "You're not making any sense, Benjamin."

"The Wardens!" His chest heaved for breath. "The Blight!"

"Calm down," Lord Garrity boomed. "Speak plainly."

Benjamin swallowed hard. "The archdemon was killed a month ago! In Denerim. The Blight is over and _both_ of those Fereldan Wardens live."

Samantha thought that surely this must be a joke. The two Grey Wardens that had disappeared into the ether were alive _and_ they had defeated the archdemon in less than a year _and_ they had _both_ lived through it? She glanced at Keis, her eyes questioning, but the burly woman merely gave a nod of the head, indicating that this bit of news was true.

"And one of them is Ferelden's new king! His name is Alistair. Cailan's bastard brother." Benjamin grinned but he clearly saw that his audience was having a hard time believing the news. "I swear I am not making this up."

Samantha said the first thing that popped into her head. "Cailan had a brother?"

"Really?" Benjamin scrunched his nose. "That's the only news you heard?"

Lord Garrity came to her rescue. "Infidelity is a sin, Benjamin. Maric was an honorable man, or so the stories go. It is not so strange that Lady Samantha would be confused by his impropriety."

"You can never tell what people are like by the stories, I guess," Benjamin said plainly, as if he knew the world better than everyone else.

That wasn't what she was confused about, but she didn't say anything. She turned back out to the gardens and wondered just how many people in the world had brothers who had died. How many people had to die in order to save a city? A country? A world born again from tragedy and strife, its people rallying behind its new leader. But the painted world was still grey underneath, and Samantha wondered if the canvas was ripped into a thousand pieces, would anyone even notice?

"A baby outside of his marriage," Lord Garrity bristled. "The very idea is an affront. How that bastard boy could possibly return and claim his heritage is a shame upon the country."

"Maybe he was conceived after Queen Rowan died." Benjamin shifted peevishly. "But that's not the point – the point is that Ferelden has a new king, the Blight is over and has been for almost a month, and so now we don't have to worry about the darkspawn crossing the Waking Sea and killing us all!"

Lord Garrity grunted. "Perhaps now those damn Fereldans will go back to their own country instead of adding to the poverty of the Free Marches."

"Better than the elves." Benjamin plopped down on a sofa.

Lord Garrity grumbled something in approval.

Samantha gave out a small sigh in annoyance. It was fairly impressive how they managed to turn an entire country's success story into a silver lining of their lives. How were they processing her then? A vessel for their overflowing generosity? As the days passed, she had begun to wonder why she was still staying here.

"Regardless," Lord Garrity waved the entire notion away with a large hand, his other scratching his whiskers. "I suppose that's fine news. Will there be celebrations?"

"I haven't heard anything from Go—uh...." Benjamin shot a look at Keis. "From the prince."

It was an adjustment for everyone to make: Goran Vael was the new Prince of Starkhaven. Rumors were that it was even new to him. Seemingly artless in nearly all his endeavors, he was handling this new responsibility with absenteeism. When speaking of him, everyone seemed to mind their manners around Samantha, whether it was because she was once engaged to his brother or because of Keis.

Lord Garrity grumbled something about luck and the Maker's plan before he announced convincingly, "Don't you worry Samantha. Your petition will not get delayed. I will see to it myself."

Samantha gave a small smile. "Thank you, Lord Garrity."

Her family estate included holdings and bank accounts that would provide her with the life of luxury she had grown up with, but truthfully, Samantha wasn't sure she could handle getting her actual home back. How could she be in the same house that Innley had tortured and killed her parents? How could she sleep in the same bed that she and Corbinian had shared so many times? How could she set one foot into Innley's old room, the one with the view across all of Starkhaven to the husk of the Circle Tower, which had been burned down to a blackened wiry mess? It looked like a dead tree now.

Benjamin propped his feet up on the table in front of him, "Samantha, you should come with me to the stables. We could go for a celebratory ride."

"A fine idea," Lord Garrity added.

"I don't ride."

"What? I've seen you—"

"I don't ride, Benjamin," Samantha mumbled, growing weary in his energetic presence. "I never have."

"Oh." He seemed to think about that. "I suppose that was Flora… well, we could go for a walk through Granite Circle."

She thought about her walks with Corbinian after service and shook her head.

"We could… tour the gardens of the estate?"

Samantha shook her head again, trying not to cry. This was terrible, of course. Immersed in her grief, she couldn't even find the will to politely refuse. She could almost feel Keis sighing.

Benjamin lifted his hands up slightly in exasperation, looking to his father for support.

"You haven't left the house in a week, dear. Not since service." Lord Garrity was being gentle.

Everyone seemed to be overly preoccupied with Samantha's emotional state. They all insisted that she _move on_ , whatever that meant. How was she supposed to do that? What did that even mean? And why would she want to leave all those she had loved in the world? Just because they had left her prematurely didn't seem like a good enough reason. Like she was somehow betraying them by willing her heart not to ache for their presence.

Her father with his glasses and books. Her mother with her letter-writing and insipid conversation. Her brother with his innocent charm before he turned into a monster. Her Beenie with his cheeky grin and immovable body. And Vael-blue eyes. And his lute. And his sword. And climbing through her window. And their private jokes about Lord Kendall, whose death only heightened her sense of loss. Even their shared jokes were dying.

Before she even realized it, she was weeping. Broken down and put back together in a bed with a nursemaid and a cloth dripping with warm water. Floating down a salted river, its bank lined with dead fish and blackened trees and a sky grey with ash and Andraste's stone stare into nothing. She woke up only to turn over and drift away again.

"My lady." A soft-spoken maid touched her shoulder. "My lady, please wake."

Samantha cracked an eyelid to spy a young elven girl who spoke with a perfect Starkhaven accent. Clearly, she had lived here her whole life.

"My lady, you have a visitor. She insists on seeing you. My lord asked me to rouse you."

Samantha turned over onto her back, bringing her hands to her eyes which stung hot with old tears. With the maid's help, she lifted herself to a sitting position, and noted Keis leaning against the far wall, her eyes focused out of the large window. She was always looking out of windows.

"I don't want a visitor," Samantha whined.

"She insists, my lady," the elf said, holding a hand mirror.

Samantha lifted the mirror to her eyes and it didn't soften her. Her golden brown skin was tinted unevenly with shades of blotchy pink, and the dark circles under her eyes masked the youthful girl below. Her hair was a disaster, knotted and flying off her head like a witch in a storybook. She also had a set of lines down the side of her left cheek where the pillowcases had indented her skin. She must have slept very still for a while.

"Maker," Samantha whispered, and the shell of a girl in the mirror mocked her with fatigue.

The elf girl moved closer with a hairbrush and some powder, items produced from somewhere out of Samantha's view. "Here, let me."

She brushed her hair and applied the powder to Samantha's cheeks and eyes. The elf smoothed out her clothes and fetched a glass of hot milk with a tablespoon of honey for her throat, all the while silent and determined, her enormous emerald eyes darting over Samantha like a bird's twitching. Like she was seeing the world but not really understanding it.

"There," she sat back, lifting the mirror again, and Samantha had to admit that this elf was worth every penny the Garritys were paying her.

"Who is she?" Samantha asked the elf about her visitor.

But it was Keis who answered. "Some girl from the Chantry."

That was rather odd as no one from the Chantry made house visits, not even to the nobles. Perhaps Samantha had left something there and this was their courier, but she couldn't think of a thing she could have left behind.

Samantha asked Keis, "What does she want?"

"She has letters for you." Keis didn't move from the window.

 _Letters_! Samantha's heart sang. "You talked to her?"

"Yes."

"What did she say?" Samantha watched the elf girl leave the room, likely fetching the visitor.

"That she had letters for you," was Keis' reply.

Turning back to the doorway, Samantha rolled her eyes in annoyance. Keis didn't talk much and when she did, her tone was biting and her words were curt.

There was another knock as someone lighty tapped on the outside of the door, and a very young girl entered the room. She was small, pretty, and her voice had a distinct Marcher accent. She curtsied politely at the door. "My lady."

"Come in." Samantha patted the bed at her side and the pretty girl moved into the room.

She walked like she was skating on ice, gracefully moving across the plush rug, lifting the skirt of her robe up as she sat down on the bed.

"I am a chanter. My name is Taletha." She smiled.

Samantha forced herself to smile back, trying to hide her anxiety about the letters. "A pleasure to meet you. I hear you have letters for me?"

"Yes, my lady. But before I give them to you, I must tell you why I have come personally." The girl folded her hands on top of her lap. "I am here at the behest of the Knight Commander of Starkhaven. The Templars are hunting mages and the sisters and brothers of the Chantry are quite busy with the influx of orphans and those in need since the night of the Mage Rebellion."

So that's what they were calling it now. Samantha groaned inwardly. At first it was just _The Destruction of the Circle_ , and then it became _The Tragedy at the Starkhaven Circle,_ which morphed into _The Rebellion at the Starkhaven Circle_ , and the last Samantha had heard, they were calling it _The Second Mage Rebellion of Starkhaven_. The first, of course, being Adain. Always back to him. Were they going to settle on a name or not? The only reason it mattered was because everyone was talking about it, and Starkhaven's finest could not simply refer to an event without a name. An event without a name was not an event.

"The Knight Commander has tasked the chanters with delivering the delayed post. You see—" Taletha pulled a small stack of letters from inside the sleeve of her robe. They were folded neatly on top of each other and tied together with string. "—it is his sworn duty to hunt down the missing apostates, those that escaped the Circle and the Templars’ chase. He is using every means necessary to find the murderers of the Vael family and your family, and so many other families. He believes that many still reside in Starkhaven, in hiding in the alienage, or Vanguard's Square, or perhaps even Fyruss' Reach. These are all places where nobles like you never set foot, but they would be ideal hiding places for apostates."

 _Vanguard's Square_.... Samantha could have laughed out loud. That was the part of town that was mostly devoted to Starkhaven's military; the formal training yards, the barracks, the Court of Justice – why would mages hide there?

Fyruss' Reach was much more likely. It was the part of town that was furthest away from the royal palace, and was so named for Starkhaven's foolishly prideful king, back when they had a king. Fyruss had attempted to unite the Free Marches and form his own empire in 2:15 Glory. His advance to Antiva thirty years later had ended badly, betrayed by Starkhaven's then-allies, Tevinter, who promptly conquered the city and held it until the First Exalted March in 2:80 Glory, where Andraste marched to her freedom… and her death. History remembered Fyruss as too proud and too stupid to realize the limitations of power and the draw of freedom. Andraste taught everyone that lesson, and Fyruss' Reach became a lesson for every Havener since.

The alienage was on the other side of Vanguard's Square, and Samantha didn't know what it looked like because she had never been. She had never had a reason to go there.

Taletha went on with her practiced speech. "Information about the missing apostates is relayed in many ways. There are conspirators and sympathizers – the Knight Commander knows this is true. These people often communicate through special couriers and by the post. As such, he has detained all letters, inspecting each of them for evidence of where the missing mages have gone."

"The Knight Commander reads our letters?" Samantha spoke naively. It wasn't necessarily a question, but a statement of surprise that the man would read the nobles’ letters. Lord Garrity must be furious. Lady Preston must be beside herself.

"It is for everyone's safety." Taletha smiled sweetly. "And once the letters are cleared, they are delivered."

Samantha glanced over at Keis who was still looking out of the window.

"Have you found any mages?" Samantha had a momentary fear for her brother, not that Innley was stupid enough to stay around Starkhaven – if he still lived. The last thing she truly wanted was the Knight Commander of Starkhaven breathing down her neck, asking her questions about her maleficar brother. Aside from his unsettling gaze upon her at every moment she saw him, she heard ridiculous rumors about him that couldn't possibly be true: that he could cleanse magic in the alienage from Granite Circle, could kill a mage with a thought, and drank pure lyrium for breakfast.

"There are many leads," Taletha continued. "Many are sought for questioning, mostly those labeled conspirators and sympathizers. The Knight Commander and First Enchanter of Starkhaven and the Knight Commander of Kirkwall are working together in such pursuits."

Murdering maleficarum, dead brothers, lost loves, and now the conspirators and the Knight Commander. This was madness.

"I have heard of your loss." Taletha's soothing Marcher voice sang of sympathy as she held out the letters importantly. "If you should need anything, _anything at all,_ come and find me at the Chantry."

Samantha accepted them into her hands. "Thank you."

Taletha stood up, curtsied again with a smile before she left the room.

Inspecting the letters, she recognized the handwriting immediately: two letters from Flora and one from Sebastian! Her eyes immediately brimmed with tears and she thought she might rip into them right then, but a quick glance up revealed a very intrigued Keis no longer looking out of the window, but instead watching Samantha.

"Would you mind waiting in the hallway?" Samantha was tired of crying in front of people, mostly especially Keis.

"Why?" Keis was still leaning against the window.

"Surely, the concept of privacy isn't lost on _you_ , Keis."

In a rare display of emotion, the corner of the Royal Guard Specialist’s  mouth twitched up, and secretly Samantha congratulated herself for affecting her. Keis was the most private person she had ever known; she knew next to nothing about the warrior, other than she took her duty very seriously and was never late.

"You'll tell me if there's anything suspicious in those?"

This was a minor victory, and Samantha promised she would.

With a sigh, the tall woman lifted herself from the wall, the joints of her mail undertunic softly sighing as she moved across the room, closing the door behind her as she disappeared into the hallway. But Samantha imagined that was as far as Keis went.

Samantha unrolled the dry parchment of Flora's first letter. It was dated early summer. Two months after the Circle's destruction.

_Dearest friend Sammie,_

_Sebastian was just here with the glorious news that you are alive! We all thought you dead, because the Chantry's list of casualties had your name on it. The Maker must have heard our prayers, because the latest Survivor's Index had your name moved to the column of those who had survived! I surely hope that you weren't raised by forbidden magic, Sammie!_

_Needless to say, we are all in stunned shock over the death of the Vaels. The entire family… It's unfathomable. It was only the news of your miraculous survival that has lifted me from my despair, for surely if you live, then perhaps there are others whose names were placed on the wrong list! After seeing your name moved, we are holding out hope that other names we know appear on the next list. I will pray to the Maker each and every night that one of those names is Beenie's. I cannot imagine what you are going through – I wish I could be there._

_The moment Sebastian left this morning, I asked my mother to travel back to Starkhaven, but she won't let me go. We've heard that Starkhaven has closed its gates to travelers coming in or going out in an effort to stop any mages that may be rooted in the city somewhere, but I bet I could get in. I am familiar with sneaking in and out as Kirkwall's gates have been closed to the Fereldan refugees, and only those who have been able to buy their way in are here. Surprisingly, there are quite a few refugees that have made it in. I guess City Guard pay is too low to turn down silvers._

_Samantha, it goes without saying that as soon as you are able to travel, you are welcome to come and stay with us in Kirkwall. I know I made it sound terrible before, and trust me when I say that it's not Starkhaven, but a change of scenery might be what you need. You are probably surrounded by so many memories… maybe you should get away from them for a time._

_Please write to me._

_Love, Flora_

The second letter from Flora was dated late summer:

_Dearest Sammie,_

_I haven't heard from you. I hope my letters are getting through._

_We got another list today. At first, we held out hope for more names to be moved to the Survivors column, but it seems as though every week, the names move in the other direction. It's difficult to be so far away from our home when all these horrible things are happening. The list this week included Lord Marziano. Have you seen Arianna? I wrote to her, but she hasn't written me back, either._

_I offered to put you up here before, but truthfully, I am considering running away. Things are getting weird with my family. Maybe it's the Blight or what happened to the Vaels or the Qunari presence in Kirkwall, but they seem unhinged and I can barely deal with them anymore._

_First, I caught Ruxton coming out of a brothel the other day! He didn't seem to know what to do or say, but I figured we all have to grow up sometime, right? I think maybe he's lonely but I'm not going to be the one to put him back in his shell. Second, Brett has become obsessed with the family heirlooms. He brings them out of storage and displays them around the house, as if to show the world that we are rich and wealthy and important; it's vulgar! My mother spends all of her time in the basement trying to perfect the expansion of our house, and none of us are allowed down there. My father is barely at home anymore. As for me, I spend most days trying to run a household that seems intent on falling apart. All this craziness has been giving me headaches, sometimes so bad I wake up without realizing that I fell asleep. But don't worry about me, Sammie. I just need a holiday. If you do come, I think you and I will find an inn._

_It would be nicer if I saw more of Sebastian, but he has been in seclusion for months. He doesn't even come out for service. The Grand Cleric says he is grieving and he needs time, but Sebastian was never one to grieve. I remember the look in his eyes when he came to our house that day to tell us you lived… I think he's angry. I think he's planning something, but I can't exactly do anything about it when he locks himself inside that temple._

_I'll keep writing._

_Love, Flora_

Samantha's heart pounded for Flora, her best friend, miles and miles away with a family that was falling apart too slowly, unlike Samantha's life, which had been ripped open and bled dry all in a single night. To visit Kirkwall seemed at once frightening and dangerous, with so many apostates out there, and so many demons… and Innley.

 _Innley of Starkhaven..._ The letter from Sebastian was actually still sealed. This was confusing, because Flora's letter's seals had been broken. When Samantha opened it up, she saw it was dated in midsummer.

_Samantha,_

_I pray to the Maker that this letter finds you. I knew something was amiss because it isn't like you not to respond to a letter. This may come as a surprise, but this is my fourth letter to you and up until a few days ago, I didn't understand why I hadn’t heard a response._

_It took some investigation, but I have learned that all letters are going through the Office of the Knight Commander. The letters are opened and examined for content about escaped mages which under these types of circumstances is not unusual, but it seems like all of my letters were confiscated, and I have said nothing about mages. I had to send this letter with a courier that the Knight Commander cannot touch, a chanter named Taletha. To send me a letter in return, hand them directly to her._

_My questions about my family's death have gone unanswered and I apologize sincerely for the indelicate nature of these inquiries, but I need your help. How did Goran survive that night? Why didn't the mages come to my family's aid? The official causes of death were listed as "magic-related" for some of the Vaels while others are listed as "by the sword". This doesn't make sense. Why would these renegade apostates go to all the trouble of escaping the Circle to break into the Royal Palace, risking death and recapture, to murder my family? With swords?_

_Finally, I know how much you and Corbinian loved each other, for no gift from the Maker could be greater, and I know that right now nothing I can say in this letter will take away your suffering. If I can offer anything it is to take comfort in the words of Maker. In His light, we are never alone._

_Maker keep you safe,_

_Sebastian_

Sebastian was a smart man; he had always been. Whether he was sweet-talking some girl out of her dress or drunkenly showing off, he had always known just what to say and how to say it. Maybe it was a Vael thing, this gift with words that Goran had somehow failed to inherit, because Sebastian had asked all the same questions that many in Starkhaven had been asking. Most especially about the new prince.

Goran claimed that he had hidden in a closet the entire night. This story was confirmed by the guards who had found him. They had swept through the palace looking for survivors and cataloguing the dead, eventually coming to understand that he was missing. It took hours to find him, curled up on the floor of a closet in an unused bedroom in his family's wing. They said he was buried under a pile of furs and completely hidden until he moved out from under them, wide-eyed and terrified.

The merchant class of Starkhaven had taken to calling him the Cowardly Prince. It was a nickname that many of the nobles never used out of deference to the prince's seat, but they didn't argue with it either.

There was a single knock on the door and Keis cracked it open. "Well?"

"Well what?" Samantha grew more intolerant with every knock. "They're letters! From my friends."

"Flora and Sebastian," she stated, but it was a question.

"Yes," Samantha hissed quietly, trying to find her manners in the fatigue of her grief.

Keis seemed satisfied with that answer. "May I come back in? Or do you require privacy to cry?"

Maker, she was rude! Samantha rolled her eyes. "No, you can come in."

Keis closed the door behind her before she resumed her post, leaning against the window, her eyes fixed at some point outside, her armor sighing into silence. The sun caught the metal and reflected tiny half-moons onto the ceiling that twitched every so often. It was the only way that Samantha knew Keis still breathed.

She watched them for a time, letting them hypnotize her into sleep as she clutched the letters to her chest, comforted not by her guardian's company nor by the Maker's Light that refracted off her guardian's armor, but instead comforted by the words of her friends, littered on parchment, and sent into the bitter world to see what fruit they would bear.


	20. 9:31 Dragon, Autumn

**9:31 Dragon, Autumn**

Goran Vael never moved very fast. Most of the time that Samantha had spent with him, she hadn't seen him move very much at all, so it came as somewhat of a surprise to see him jump to his feet so quickly.

He had been seated in the Prince of Starkhaven's chair at the head of the table in the Grand Room. It was called Grand not for the lavish decorations, but because grand things tended to happen there.

When the famed elven Grey Warden Garahel came through to call the bannermen of the Free Marches during the Fourth Blight, he had called those banners from this room. When the last Champion of Starkhaven was named, it had been done in this room. When the former Prince of Starkhaven had exiled his own son, Sebastian, to the Chantry in Kirkwall, he had done so from this room.

Samantha had initially gone to the Justice Building to speak to the Special Council on the Restoration of Starkhaven—a group of men and women elected by the Starkhaven Council to deal with land disputes and advise on courses of action—but she never got a chance to tell them why she had come. She had only gotten as far as her name before they all jumped to their feet in recognition of the fiancé to the late prince's nephew. At first, they were beside themselves with sympathy, but then she was ushered through a series of hallways and found herself in the Grand Room, a place which she found intimidating. Goran sat slouched in the Prince of Starkhaven’s chair, but upon the sight of her, he had jumped to his feet faster than she’d thought he was capable of doing.

He blinked a few times, a little slow to react but nevertheless intent as he walked around the enormous round table. Roughly a dozen women and men in various forms of formal business attire were seated at it, rummaging through mountainous stacks of paper and quills. Goran clasped Samantha’s hands into his own, which weren't as clammy as she always imagined, but rather soft. Soft like someone who had never held a sword. Soft like a lady's hands.

It had been more than a year since she had really seen much of Goran, and more than three years since she gotten a good look at him. Whether it was during Chantry service or at some formal event, he was always far away, but now up close she could see that the years had changed him. Where Corbinian was masculine and handsome, Goran had a unique, striking beauty that seemed at once effeminate and dangerous. He had been a pudgy kid, but now as a man in his early twenties, he had grown into his body. He was solid, yet svelte; tall and strong like a Vael, but graceful like his mother.

"You live," he said softly.

"So do you," she answered.

He was completely ignoring Keis, who stood rigidly in the doorway, but so was Samantha. She was absorbed in his eyes – those Vael-blue eyes that she knew so well. He looked right into her and she could see her own sadness reflected back; he had lost his whole family, too.

He didn't blink. "Whatever it is that you need, you can have."

"I want my family's estate."

"Done."

"Er—" A spindly man with long, red hair stood up and spoke slowly. "Your Highness, there are channels to go through. Documents. Procedure. This is a matter for the Council."

"Oh." Goran seemed disappointed, but he didn't argue.

"But I have been waiting for eight months," Samantha complained to the man, not really knowing who to talk to anymore. "It's my estate. I am the heir. My uncle wouldn't want it!" _And I don't want to live with the Garritys forever_ , she added silently.

"Yes, well," the man answered awkwardly. "You have to understand how this works. We can't just _give_ it back. You have to petition, and we have to review it. There's a waiting period for matters of wills and inheritance. You will be assigned a liaison, but be warned, we are backed up quite a ways—"

"I was nearly killed!" Samantha began to forget her manners through her still-tender grief. "My home was taken away and I just want it back!"

"It's how these things are done," the man said gently, but he clearly wasn't a gentle man.

"Put her at the top of the list," Goran said to the man, who nodded in triumph and sat back down. The prince then turned back to Samantha, still holding her hands. "Where are you staying?"

"With Lord Garrity."

"Oh, right." He seemed confused by that, and then turned back to the table full of bureaucrats. "Can you finish without me?"

They all nodded their heads wearily. Some of them were pinching the bridge of their noses and removing their glasses as if they were used to this abandonment, but Goran didn't seem to care.

He should have offered her his elbow as propriety would demand, but he held her hand instead as he led her from the room, through a series of hallways, through the Main Hall of the Justice Building and into the crisp autumn afternoon. They traveled through Starkhaven's streets without a word, and Samantha didn't try to speak, too distracted by the gawking onlookers. Entire groups, many of them families that she knew, stopped in mid-conversation to bow and curtsey as the prince passed, shifting their gazes to her curiously and then putting their heads together in whispered gossip.

Finally, they turned on a familiar path and Samantha saw the palace gates looming ahead.

"Where are we going?" she asked nervously.

"I can't stand it in that building," he muttered in answer. "It's so stuffy. There's no light."

He led her through the wrought iron gates, where the ivy crept up the bars, and through the enormous double doors into the main hallway of the palace, where the ceiling hovered in darkness three floors above them. Goran didn't stop as he led her up a flight of stairs and through another series of hallways that alternated between darkness and light cast from the windows. The dust that puffed up from their passing made Samantha sneeze; these evidently weren't well-traveled corridors.

Eventually, they turned into a giant room that looked very much like Samantha's mother's sitting room, but with much nicer furnishings. She remembered her mother's green chairs with pink cushions. Lemon cakes and sterling silver tea pots. Sheer curtains that were always closed, hiding the Tyler Estate's rhododendron bushes. But in this room, the single large window along the far wall had its curtains drawn back, letting in a stream of soft sunshine. Samantha wandered over, squinting through the yellow light to see the Royal Gardens, and in perfect view was the giant fountain surrounded by calla lilies – Goran's mother's favorite flower. But the lilies were wilting under the autumn sunshine, and Samantha wondered if there anything left in the world that didn't die.

"I read the report," Goran said, gesturing to one of the sofas that lined the walls. It was the standard conversation-starter these days, as if everyone wanted Samantha to know that she didn't need to recount what had happened. Or perhaps that they understood something, as if reading a written account and understanding what happened were the same thing. But Goran wasn't just anyone. He was the prince. He was also Corbinian's brother. "You saw Beenie?"

She nodded and the hope in his face made her heart ache. How was she going to live without her Beenie? It wasn't the first time that thought had occurred.

"The report said…" He paused, taking a breath and sitting down beside her. "Well, it said you saw him, but he looked funny."

She nodded again. In between fits of despair, she had told the Templars that Corbinian had been standing at the door, his expression blank and his skin ashen, which was true. But in the haze of her memory, she could clearly see those eyes, metallic and swirling... and then the laugh. She’d told the Templars, but the questions that followed had no answers. She hadn’t known what it was, and she hadn’t been able to tell what it was doing. She hadn't seen anything else.

"The Templars think he was in the possession of a demon." Goran’s voice thinned out before he started shaking his head, little vibrations like a leaf in the wind. "But I just… Not Beenie."

Samantha hesitated, not wanting to talk about this. "I don't know what it was."

He didn't seem to have heard her. "Whatever it was, he's likely fighting it right now. I've sent out a group of guards – as many as Starkhaven can spare – and they are looking for him."

Was it foolish to hope he was still alive? After all, they had thought Samantha was dead and she wasn't. Goran seemed so certain, but Samantha feared holding on to even the hope of Corbinian was too risky. She couldn't lose him again. Once in a lifetime was enough.

"I know him," was all Goran said before he let go of her hands.

He rose from the sofa, traveling the length of the room to a desk, and opened up a drawer. For a fleeting moment, she thought maybe he had found her locket, but instead he lifted out a seal.

He walked back and pressed it into her palm. "Show this to any guard, anywhere in the city, and they will bring you here. Show it to anyone in the palace, and you will be allowed entry in any room. I want you to move in."

She felt a bout of panic. The palace. Full of ghosts.

Goran scrunched his brows together, a common gesture for him. "There's plenty of room, and Keis will be able to keep an eye on you more easily from here."

"That's very kind of you, Goran—"

He was so intent. "You are still my family."                        

 _Family_. The way he said it sent flutters through her stomach, but she didn't want to cry in front of him.

"But the Garritys—"

"They can't protect you."

"Protect me from what?"

From the way his eyes shifted, she knew what was coming was not the whole truth. "You've been through a lot, and your parents’ murderer has not been caught…"

He meant Innley, of course, and though she understood that the delicate nature of her loss made him refrain from saying the name, a pang of sorrow echoed through her chest nonetheless. She swallowed, trying to hide her torment. "I'm fine there."

He seemed disappointed, but said: "Samantha, Beenie loved you. I know that you may not be ready yet, but someday soon, I want you to come and live here. Think about a date." He paused, smiling weakly. "It'd be nice to have a family again."

Did he need her to come here for her safety or for his comfort? He seemed so insistent, so determined, and because she didn't know him very well, she found it hard to gauge his intentions.

"Maybe in the Spring…" She wasn't sure about that, but looking at his eyes revived memories of one other place where she could truly see Corbinian's eyes once more. "Would you mind… if maybe I could… see those paintings in the hallway?"

Goran looked puzzled again. "You want to see the paintings of my parents?"

"No." She actually smiled a little at his confusion. "I like those paintings in the hallway of your family's wing. Of Beenie."

This prompted a very unusual response, for she had never seen Goran smile so widely. "You want to see _my_ paintings?"

Samantha opened her mouth but nothing came out for a few seconds. "Your paintings?"

"Yes, I painted those." He took her hand again and led her out of the room and down another hallway. "I used to paint my mother, but my father put a stop to that when I was ten. So, the best I could do was my brother. I used to make him sit for me, because I couldn't get anyone else to."

That made no sense at all to her. "You couldn't find a model?"

"My father didn't want me to paint," he answered bitterly. "He wanted me to take up something else. Here we are." They rounded a corner and came into the hallway with the portraits.

And there he was. Corbinian's skin was so tanned and his hair was so thick and of course his eyes were so Vael-blue that it burned like a branding iron on her heart. They jumped out from each painting, one after the other, between jagged lines and streaks and smears and delicately placed curves and angles. He was there. And there. And there.

Samantha wanted to melt into the wall to be with the Corbinians who smiled devilishly from inside the picture frames. Like some daily ritual, her tears arrived without flourish, sliding down her cheeks. She couldn't have helped it even if she’d wanted to.

"Corbinian liked them, too," Goran said quietly, leaning against the opposite wall.

"He never said that you painted them," Samantha said distantly.

"He covered for me. Father said that Vaels do practical things. This isn't practical."

She brushed the tears away. "They are beautiful."

"Every year it was something new." There was anger in his voice. "Drawing buildings, designing carts for hauling or weapons like catapults. He figured if I could draw, then I should use that elsewhere. One year, I was asked to draw a design for a new Circle Tower." He let out a scoff. "Maybe I should dig that picture out."

Samantha took a good look at him; he seemed so sad, so alone. It was like she had never known Goran at all. She sniffled again, bringing out a small handkerchief, because she realized that he wasn't going to give her one like he should have. That was when she saw it, just down the hallway: a ray of light streaming through the doorway, as if the Maker was calling to her.

"Goran." She licked her lips. "May I…?" And she gestured down the hallway.

Goran blinked back whatever tears he was fighting and turned to follow her gaze. A moment passed before he realized what she was asking. "Oh. Yes. Of course."

When she had traveled slowly down the hallway to find her parents experiencing demonic torture, Samantha had had no idea what she was walking into, and now—although she knew where she was heading this time—she moved slowly all the same. Without even asking, she reached out and grabbed Goran's arm, leaning on him for support, and he accepted it. He seemed to be used to accepting whatever was given to him.

Corbinian's room was just the same. Blue. The lute. The rug. The pine flooring. The only noticeable difference was that the mounted sword on the wall was missing. Samantha had a sudden flash of Corbinian fighting like mad, swinging a sword in fluid motions upwards and downwards, spinning around and thrusting a shield out—

Her thoughts were interrupted by two men who appeared in the doorway. One looked like a secretary or a butler or something, and the other was a man just like the spindly redhead back at the Justice building: a bland bureaucrat with an agenda, hiding behind his mask of politeness.

"Your Highness, so sorry to interrupt, but I need a word."

"Right. Make yourself at home, Sammie." Goran let go of her and turned abruptly to follow the man down the hallway.

She was left alone in Corbinian's room. A fine layer of dust blanketed everything like a quiet dusting of snow and the sunlight that streamed in from the window revealed the tiny specks floating in the stagnant air. Even the lute had a layer of dust on it.

_My new weapon of choice._

It all felt like such a waste. Covered in dust and left untouched. A life halted in mid-stride. The sun was starting to set outside the window and it felt as if she had just been here yesterday.

_Pretend sleep. Just for a short time before it's totally dark out and then I'll take you home. Here, I'll open the curtains so we can see when the sun sets._

Her eyes landed upon a small box that sat upon his bureau, and when she cracked open the lid, she saw his engagement ring sitting silently inside.

_Vaels don't die._

It didn't feel fair. She had a life and someone with whom to share it. A best friend and a million tangible dreams. She looked back at the bed, remembering the feel of his body against hers, and her movements were mindless as she removed her shoes and pulled back the blanket, sliding between the sheets. She remembered feeling his breath in her hair. His hand across her hips. The warmth. Like her own personal hearth.

_It's my wild passionate feelings for you, Sammie._

No. It definitely wasn't fair.

She didn't know how long she slept, but the sun had set by the time she woke up. She could have slept longer, but voices that drifted down the hallway had interrupted her blessedly dreamless sleep, and now she felt a little embarrassed. Falling asleep in Corbinian's room while visiting with his brother...! She wondered if Goran had returned to find her sleeping and just left her there.

The voices were tight and strained, like two men were arguing. Samantha didn't mean to hear what she heard, but the strange, empty state of the Royal Palace had created echoing corridors and the conversation slipped into the room as if she was a part of it.

"She has done a lot for you." The first man sounded like a Marcher, but there was something else behind his accent, like it had been softened from living outside the Free Marches for a long time.

"She murdered my family!" That was Goran Vael on the brink of losing control.

"She spared your life and this is not a nice way to repay her kindness."

" _Kindness_? She's been trying to order me around just like my father! Well, I'm not my father's son anymore. She'll find that out soon enough."

"It isn't wise to make the Lady mad," the man warned. "She has already proven what she is capable of."

"Ahh, that she has, Serah Flint," Goran responded with his own threatening tone. "And I know your men lurk in the shadows waiting to kill me at her order. Just like you did to my family. She thinks that she did me some favor by sparing me, but it was no kindness." Goran appeared to be having a hard time not yelling. "I've let you bully me and I've let her threaten me. _No more_."

There was a shuffling of heavy footsteps clinking with metal but eventually Goran's voice broke through.

"I'm not that scared boy in the closet anymore. I'm the Prince of Starkhaven with a Royal Army now and I am not afraid of you." He was breathing heavily and when he spoke next, it was to the guards. "Take him to the dungeons, and inform the Royal Guard that it's open season on his men."

"You're making a mistake—!" There was another shuffling of footsteps and metal clinking, this time with a few grunts, and Samantha recognized the sounds as guards hauling the man named Flint away.

Goran spoke one final time. "Keis, cut off his head and have it sent to Kirkwall. Let's see if the Lady considers _that_ a kindness."


	21. 9:31 Dragon, Late Autumn

**9:31 Dragon, Late Autumn**

_Dear Sebastian,_

_Thank you for your letter. Words are inadequate to describe the comfort that it brought to me. I would love to hear more from you, but I understand that after you read this missive, you might be propelled to action that will detain your response, for I have news of the most disturbing nature._

_First and foremost, your suspicions about the night of the destruction of the Starkhaven Circle are not unfounded. Certain information was revealed to me clandestinely, though very much by accident as I was visiting with your cousin, Goran Vael, at the royal palace when I fell asleep and I believe he forgot that I was nearby. I overheard him arguing with a man named Flint, and from this conversation, it is my belief that the mages had nothing to do with the murder of your family, but rather their unfortunate end came at hands of a mercenary company lead by this man who was hired by an external source only referenced as "The Lady"._

_Unfortunately, this is not all. Goran instructed the guard present to kill this man, Flint, and send his head to Kirkwall! I fear this means that the one who hired this mercenary group resides in the same city in which you live, and if that's the case then your life is in danger! The conversation I overheard suggested that Goran would have been killed that night as well, but was spared by this "Lady" and that she has been threatening him and perhaps even making demands of him ever since. I know you believe the Chantry may offer you protection, but you said yourself that the corruption in the city of Kirkwall runs through every door. I fear for your safety, Sebastian._

_You are the last of your line, and I have lost too many friends already. I cannot lose you as well._

_May the Maker protect you,_

_Samantha_

_P.S. When I received your letter, I also received two letters from Flora. She sounded desperate and would likely benefit from a little Chantry wisdom._

Samantha was trying to stay calm. She really was, but she wasn't used to such covert operations as sneaking letters to people in far away cities through intermediaries that she didn't even know. She felt completely transparent in her quest and could have sworn that Keis had been eyeing her peculiarly all the way to the Chantry that morning.

Keis was standing against the back wall, as she preferred to stand during service. She had been so attached to Samantha at every public moment that Samantha had started forgetting she was even there. Not that it mattered; Keis almost seemed to prefer it that way.

Grand Cleric Francesca was talking about tolerance, patience, and kindness. She had been giving practically the same sermon for the last six months, and just rewording it slightly to ring the changes. She stood at the front of the room in her beautiful robes, her graying hair gently swept up on top of her head, her eyes so kind and bright, and she would proclaim that everything was going to be just fine. Samantha wanted to believe her, but truthfully she was a little distracted.

Samantha had been staring at Taletha for the entirety of service. She seemed so innocent, standing behind the Grand Cleric's podium with the other brothers and sisters, her expression devout as she drank in Francesca's words and her eyes closed when she sang with the choir. Her voice was lost in the group's, guiding the rest of the congregation in song and prayer but, after Francesca was finished, Samantha would be able to talk to her.

 _If you need anything, anything at all, just let me know_ , Taletha had said. She was a Marcher, but her accent was foreign and Samantha thought maybe she was from Ostwick. She had caught the accent but not how intent she seemed at the time, which now stood out quite clearly in her memory. Sebastian's letter said that she would able to direct their correspondence, about which Samantha felt a strong sense of urgency. The contents of her letter were very important, and she couldn't get caught with it, nor could she wait to send it any longer than the agonizing four days that had already passed since she’d written the words. It had to be arranged today. Perhaps during service was not the most appropriate time, but Samantha had barely left the Garritys’ estate, and she thought it might seem conspicuous if she were to suddenly have a desire to do so. Keis would certainly suspect an ulterior motive.

Sitting inside the beautiful Chantry, surrounded by hundreds of Starkhaven's nobles, Samantha tried to remind herself to stay calm. She focused on the late morning sunshine streaming through the stained glass windows that made everything feel touched by the Maker himself. Just outside, the spring flowers accented the granite path and made everything fragrant. It was a world born again with a new purpose. She had a new purpose, too. It was slipped inside the palm of her glove and she pressed her fingers against it like, if she didn't, it would disappear.

Benjamin approached her after service, to take her arm and lead her through Granite Circle like a gentleman would, but she politely refused citing that she wanted to speak to a sister from the Chantry. She implied that she needed to talk about her ongoing grief over Corbinian and, if she had no other purpose, that would have been a good reason. But this new purpose gave her strength.

She approached Taletha, who was standing silently against the wall, watching the congregation leave. There were a few other brothers and sisters at her side and they all smiled as Samantha approached.

"Hello." Samantha curtsied.

All of them smiled, but Taletha stepped forward and gave a formal bow of her head. "Hello milady. It is so lovely to see you out and about." Her accent was so strange that Samantha had to watch her mouth to clearly understand her words.

Samantha felt nervous. "I… wanted to thank you again for your visit the other day. It was such a blessing to hear word from my friends. It was like a weight had been lifted."

"True friendship is a gift from the Maker." Taletha's voice was soft and kind. "It should be nurtured."

"Then I am truly blessed." Samantha spoke carefully, wondering if they were communicating in some kind of code. "I have written to my friends, to let them know that I am alive and well."

"I am sure they are grateful for your correspondence."

The others didn't seem to be paying attention, and Samantha pressed on. "I was hoping that I could—" She was too nervous, and she tapped the paper in her glove to calm herself. "—talk to you. About the Chant of Light. Perhaps we could… sing it together?"

"Chanting always calms me as well." Taletha rested her hand on Samantha's shoulders. "I am free right now if you have time. Would you like some privacy? A confession room perhaps?"

"That would be most generous." Samantha was half-holding her breath.

"Come with me, my lady." Taletha bowed her head and began to walk, but Samantha felt a hand on her shoulder.

"No," Keis stated.

"It's all right, Keis." Samantha sighed. "This is Taletha. She's a chanter, not maleficar."

Keis eyed the girl carefully, and it was interesting to see her rigidity so strongly contrasted against Taletha’s grace.

"We will just talk," Taletha said genially. "Surely, the Prince of Starkhaven understands that the conversation between a woman and the Maker is private."

"I'll be right outside the door," Keis said, still eyeing the foreigner. "I'm coming in if I hear anything out of the ordinary."

"Then I suppose you should break down the door if I start laughing," Samantha mumbled, reminding herself later to have yet another talk with Goran about this whole _personal guard_ idea.

Taletha just smiled as she turned and as Samantha followed, she wondered if the rest of her life would be dominated by following people through hallways. Her footsteps echoed off the polished stone floor, and Samantha could see the ghosts her own history. There was Innley, laughing and chasing her because she had playfully stolen one of his shoes during service. There was Corbinian, pulling her behind a column, sneaking a kiss after service when the pair had gone to the wall to a light a candle. There were the orphans running around her legs in circles, their tiny hands fingering the ribbons of her dress. There was her own shadow as she held onto Ser Traven's arm when he had escorted her out of the building to Lord Garrity's estate. All of these images passed in front of her as she followed the hem of Taletha's robe as it lightly collected small specks of dust in her wake. She could see the faint streaks against the floor.

"Here we are," Taletha said, and Samantha wondered why she had chosen this life. She was pretty enough to catch the eye of the wealthy and beautiful alike.

The candles in the candelabras flickered as they entered, disturbing the still air and Taletha gestured for Samantha to take a knee on the rug. It was maroon with the Maker's sun woven in the center, picked out in a brilliant gold. Adjacent to the altar sat a small pew, only comfortable enough for two. Taletha offered prayers to the Maker but when she opened her eyes, she stared into Samantha's intently.

"I know why you are here," she said quietly, and then looked her over. "Sebastian described you quite well; he said you wouldn't take long to come to me. You are indeed fearless."

 _Fearless?_ Samantha felt taken completely aback. Lately, fear was something she felt regularly. Had it been so long? Had she changed so much?

"Is he safe?" Samantha whispered.

"He is."

"Do you know where his letters went?"

"No. Sebastian believes the Knight Commander has detained them, but there is no evidence of that. In fact, he is working dutifully with other Knight Commanders in the Free Marches to find and capture the escaped mages."

Samantha wondered if Innley had been caught or if he was lurking around Starkhaven waiting to kill her still. She wasn't sure if she wanted the answer, but she asked anyway: "Where have they been found?"

"All over. The wilderness. The mountains. The cities." Taletha took her hands. "Do not worry. There are bounties out on all of them, and it's only a matter of time before they are caught. And you are safe here. Starkhaven is secure."

Right. Like the Circle Tower had been secure. Like Starkhaven had been safe once before. And now the only people she loved who were left alive were in Kirkwall, where _The Lady_ lived and probably wanted them dead.

"When are you going back to Kirkwall?" Samantha felt that sense of urgency again.

"I can leave on the next caravan."

Caravans left on a weekly basis, usually around the beginning of the week, which meant that Taletha was likely leaving in just a few days.

"I have a letter for Sebastian." She was definitely feeling paranoid. "It's very important that he receive it."

"He has been anxiously awaiting your reply." Taletha smiled.

Carefully, Samantha removed the folded note from her glove but felt hesitant to be parted from it. Taletha must have seen this because she gently said, "Sebastian is my brother in the Maker's eyes. He has told me of you. You were to marry his cousin and before that you were one of his dearest friends. He cares for you like family, which makes you my family, too. You can trust that your letter will go unopened until he opens it himself."

 _Family_. The theme of the year. First Goran and now Taletha. The very idea of it made Samantha's face scrunch up in grief but she didn't want to cry in front of this girl, either.

"Forgive me. I did not mean to upset you." Taletha seemed to mean it.

"Why are you doing this for us? Won't you get in trouble if you're found out?" Samantha felt afraid for her, as much as she felt afraid for herself.

Taletha squeezed Samantha's hands, looking directly in her eyes. “When the Maker shows you his path,” she said earnestly, her voice steady and calm, "You do not go the opposite way."

So that was it, then. This girl, who seemed as young as Samantha herself, believed the Maker wanted Samantha and Sebastian to exchange letters – as ridiculous as that sounded.

It occurred to Samantha that perhaps the Maker had guided her ears to that conversation between Flint and Goran. Maybe it was all part of His plan. Taletha smiled. Her eyes were so bright; Samantha wished that she could be as sure of the world.

"How will this work exactly?" Samantha still held the letter.

"Traveling back and forth among the cities – it is commonly done among chanters. But we must be careful. Sebastian has asked that your correspondence with him go unknown, so you must tell no one. It also might be best that we do not speak of him too often, lest suspicions arise and we are overheard."

"Are we in danger?"

"Sebastian feels something is amiss." Taletha glanced at the confession room door. "He will be pleased that that large woman is guarding you. But we all must be careful, not just for his safety but for yours. He doesn't want to bring unwanted attention your way, but he needs your help all the same."

"He is my friend. I would never turn him away," Samantha said in earnest.

Taletha smiled again. "We all move as the Maker guides us. Recognizing His signs can be a challenge, because they are often subtle... but sometimes grand. I've always thought that friendship is a bit of both."

_Samantha's injured ankle. Innley's magic. Helena's death. Her father's stubbornness. Her mother's coldness. Flora's contrition. Ruxton and the Blooming Rose. The destruction of the Starkhaven Circle. Goran's paintings. Corbinian's room. Meghan Vael's locket..._

Samantha handed over the note.

In the several weeks that followed, Taletha was as good as her word.

She dutifully carried Samantha and Sebastian's letters back and forth between Kirkwall and Starkhaven until the late autumn snows blanketed the pass through the Vimmark Mountains. It took a month for the pass to clear and for Taletha to return, but when she did, she brought something extraordinary with her.

Keis didn't raise too many objections the next time Samantha met Taletha after Chantry service, back in one of the confession rooms; a different one this time, although they all looked the same. Taletha had rambled about how Sebastian was suddenly so focused. Normally, she claimed, his demeanor was so calm and measured and his voice was even and kind. During the last few months, she had seen an entirely different side of him, and no one at the Kirkwall Chantry knew what to make of it.

He was anxious, restless, angry. She heard a rumor that he had posted a call to service on the Chanter's Board and affixed it with an arrow. Such a brazen display of hostility had all of the sisters and brothers atwitter with discussion about him. It seemed as though Brother Sebastian had become something of a renegade. Samantha could only smirk, because the Sebastian she remembered was so much worse than that.

She could recall parties where he’d danced with no less than twenty different girls, where he’d drunk twenty glasses of wine, where he would "borrow" a bow from whatever weapons display he could find and show off his skills to giggling debutantes, affixing more than just paper with the arrows he fired. She could recount stories where he had created distractions for guards so that they could sneak around the Royal Palace's unused rooms, of which there were dozens, and she laughed at the memories of him inviting boys to archery contests... and then inviting girls to be spectators.

Incidentally, that had been how Samantha had met Corbinian. She and Flora had been those girls, and she had spied Corbinian staring at her from across the yard. She’d known who he was, of course, but they had barely spoken since the incident with the painting oils when she was five. But everything changed on that day, when it was as though once he looked at her, he never looked away. Once he spoke to her, he never stopped talking. Once he touched her, he never removed his hands.

And all of that seemed tied up in Taletha's thickly accented words about how wild and crazy Sebastian Vael seemed. If she only knew, Samantha thought ruefully. The Chanter then handed over a letter and a small box.

_Dearest Samantha,_

_I sent out this letter as soon as the pass through the Vimmarks was clear. I hope you are well and haven't been too worried about me during these past winter months._

_Words of thanks are not enough for what you have done, Sammie. Though you should never put yourself in danger like that again, I admit that the information you provided was invaluable. Through the Chanter's Board, I hired a small group of mercenaries lead by a Fereldan refugee, and I am pleased to announce that every last member of the Flint Mercenary Company is dead. I can't tell you what a relief it is to know that my parents can rest easy in their graves, but I would be lying if I also didn't admit to a sense of satisfaction knowing that their murderers have been brought to the Maker's feet._

_I have also made a decision. I've thought about it sincerely, prayed to the Maker, and searched my heart, and I have decided to leave the Chantry. Elthina does not approve of my decision, but I am returning to Starkhaven to assume the throne as the rightful heir. I just can't stay here knowing what happened to my family, to Starkhaven, and to my friends. It feels wrong to sit by and do nothing while Goran assumes a throne he is not prepared for. Surely, only Starkhaven will suffer for that._

_It's not going to be easy, though. It has been almost ten years. I don't know if the people will accept me back knowing that their prince sent me away. I also don't know if Goran will challenge me for the prince's seat, but he never seemed like a leader. I can't imagine him fighting me for it, but it is my duty to try._

_I have petitioned the Viscount of Kirkwall for his support. I will write to the Teyrn of Ostwick, the Lord Chancellor of Tantervale, and our family in Nevarra City. If I come home with the support of other leaders of the Free Marches, and perhaps some form of aid to help rebuild, then the people might accept me back more readily._

_I have not been to visit Flora, and I confess that I have not been a good friend to her. I will make amends but, right now, it is not safe to be on my own outside the Chantry while there might be agents of murder looking for me. Thanks to you, we know that the person who hired the Flint company is in Kirkwall, and so I must be careful. No doubt my family has enemies, but something doesn't sit right about any of this. I promise you, I will visit Flora when things are settled._

_I have enclosed something else. The Fereldan refugee I hired found it on one of the Flint mercenaries. I thought I would return it to its rightful owner._

_Andraste guide your way,_

_Your friend, Sebastian_

She couldn't think about how he had barely mentioned Flora. Nor could Samantha fully comprehend that she had been partly responsible for the death of an entire group of mercenaries. And finally, she couldn't process Sebastian's announcement that he intended to lay claim to the prince's throne of Starkhaven. Because at the conclusion of the letter, the small box in Taletha's hands became the magnet to which Samantha was drawn.

It was wrapped in brown parchment paper with a thick white string tied around all sides just like those tiny packages that her uncle, her father's brother, would send from all over the world. When Samantha lifted it up, she heard a small muffled noise from inside. The familiar sound of a metal chain wrapped in cloth scraping the bottom of a tiny box. She was no stranger to receiving jewelry, but that sound made her heart skip twice because she knew exactly what it was.

She had to take a seat in the confession room's pew for she had been so excited to receive a letter from Sebastian that she hadn't waited to read it. The package felt light in her hands as she sat staring at it, unopened and perfect. For a singular moment, everything was just as it used to be. She had only felt this certain about one other thing in her life, and that was the boy who had given this to her in the first place.

Can a moment last forever? Taletha sat down next to her and touched her arm. She was saying something, maybe Samantha's name, but there were no sounds in the world, no words or music or heartbeats or wind. All the world was inside the box wrapped up in a tiny bit of cloth and attached to a golden chain.

Meghan Vael's locket.


	22. 9:32 Dragon, Spring

**9:32 Dragon, Spring**

Andraste's stone face was a mystery to Samantha. She had to remind herself that someone else had carved this piece of rock to look like the prophet. It wasn't that old, and Andraste had died a long time ago, which meant that someone really had carved it to look like whatever they thought she looked like. Maybe she didn't look like that stone at all. Maybe she’d had a wider nose or been shorter, or had wavy hair. Who had chosen this likeness for her and why?

Samantha fumbled with the locket around her neck as these questions ran through her head. The initiates at the Chantry accused her of avoiding the Maker's comfort but what they were really asking her to do was to forgive Him for taking Corbinian away. She had heard the Canticle of Transfigurations more times than she could stand and by now she could recite it by heart. She had never actually listened to it before, or maybe she had just never heard the message behind the words. It was beautiful, and she had always loved the way her mother sang it when she was a little girl. But she wasn't a little girl anymore.

Sometimes she wished that she had joined her parents at the Maker's side; that would have been easier than trying to make sense of what had happened. She couldn’t help but wonder, would she have to wait until her own death to see her Beenie again? Goran was so certain he was alive that it was impossible to talk to him about Corbinian, and she couldn't shake the thought that the Prince of Starkhaven was doing her a great disservice by clinging to the idea that his brother still lived. Was Samantha supposed to move on? Was she supposed to mourn? Was she supposed to wait? She stared up at Andraste and silently asked her, _What am I supposed to do?_

Every day, she watched people come and go from the Chantry; faces she knew that were distorted by grief. The Grand Cleric said that the Maker didn't make things happen or let things happen, but if that was case, Samantha wondered why Francesca was always invoking the Maker to watch over them all. What good was a Maker who let his children suffer?

_All of them. Even the mages._

She wondered about the renegade mages often. Had they been killed? Had they escaped? Were their names on the List?

The day's musings piqued her curiosity, and her mind drifted to the most recent Survivors’ Index. It was updated as often as new information became available and posted on the Chanters’ Board just outside the Chantry, inside which Samantha had been sitting and staring at Andraste. It was her only place of refuge anytime Benjamin Garrity or his father would start to pester her about _moving on_ , which had turned out to be far too often for Samantha's patience. And even though she was wrestling with her faith, the Chantry was far more comforting than anywhere else. Maybe it was the warm wood of the pews or the colored light through the stained glass windows. Maybe it was the embrace of the sisters and brothers, or maybe it was that she received letters from Sebastian. But there weren't many places that had happy memories anymore. Thus far, the Chantry was safe.

With her shoes in hand instead of on her feet, Samantha made her way to the wide front doors of the Chantry, which creaked from their own enormous weight as she tried to pry them open. Samantha struggled to shift the heavy wood, surprised when the doors suddenly began to open more easily. It was then that she noticed Keis behind her, pulling the doors back with ease. The warrior had become a permanent fixture in her life, but inanimate like a parasol or a fork: always around when needed and never in the way. Samantha wrapped her shawl a little tighter around her shoulders as the brisk spring air greeted her.

The front of the Chantry was beautiful. Starkhaven had a reputation for lavishness after all, and so the Chantry was kept in immaculate condition. Its marble pillars and intricate carvings encircled the entire building but, most famously, the polished stone bodies of Maferath and Hessarian were carved into the first two columns of the building, as if they both were forced to hold up the roof of the shrine to Andraste for all eternity as penance for their sins. Of course, the Chantry would never claim to be a shrine to Andraste, but Samantha didn't really think they were fooling anyone.

The Chanters’ Board was littered with notes. Many of them contained drawings of the faces of the missing. _Have you seen this boy? Husband and father. Last seen on…_ Many of them were faded as if the elements of nature had taken them to task for being posted for so long, which in itself was heartbreaking.

"Did you know that someone started a separate list for pets?" A familiar voice made her twirl around. It was Ser Traven. "I doubt any of them will be found. The Tylers still haven't found their cat."

"The Tylers had a cat?" Samantha had never heard this before.

"Oh, right." Traven smirked, turning to Keis. "I forgot about all those rules the nobles have."

Keis chuckled, she only ever laughed in front of Traven. "They didn't announce it, but I think it was their son's."

 _Vincent Tyler had a cat_? It was so strange that these mundane details could change her view on someone so entirely. She had never seen his cat. She had never seen anyone's cat as it was considered low-brow to keep pets, especially vermin-chasers like cats. They were diseased and dirty, they licked themselves in unattractive places, and then wanted to lick people. Maybe this missing cat was why Vincent seemed so down when she last saw him. Maybe he was simply brooding over the loss of his pet, and Samantha felt terribly stupid for assuming it was about her family.

She was being rude in her surprised silence. "Forgive my manners, Ser Traven. How are you?"

"I am well, and your manners are impeccable as always. How are you, milady?" It wasn't one of those _how are you_ s that Keis offered, layered with a guardian's worry, but rather genuine.

She found that keeping up her formalities around Traven was difficult, and she wasn't sure why, but the honesty escaped her like her own breath. "I have good days and bad days. I was just inside and thought about the List."

"Who were you going to look for? I'll help." He moved towards the board.

"Well." She felt a little awkward, because she wasn't sure how it would sound. "I think his name is Decimus."

Keis narrowed her eyes, squinting at Samantha as if she was trying to see her intentions. Traven gave a long look, too, and she guessed he was searching for her reason as well, but his scrutiny came across as sort of revelatory. Like he was learning something about her, just as she had learned something about Vincent Tyler.

She felt the need to clarify. "I know that his fraternity was helping Innley, and I know that Innley is considered missing. I was just… I don't know what I thought, I guess."

"I understand." Traven looked back at the board. "Let's see… Decimus. Decimus… here we go. He is formally listed as missing."

"Which means he escaped." Keis didn't like to coat the truth with pleasantries.

Disappointment settled heavily upon Samantha’s  shoulders, but she wasn't sure what she had been expecting. "Oh."

"Lady Samantha..." Traven said quietly. "I've read the Templars’ report. He is not your brother any longer. Your brother died that night. Innley was a sweet boy taken advantage of by a manipulative maleficar." He took a breath and then said, "I take personal responsibility for what happened with him, because I should have watched out for him better. It was my job after all."

"That's very nice of—"

She had stopped talking, because the ground had shook. Just once. There was a low rumbling that followed and then dead silence. The birds ceased their chirping, and quite suddenly flew from the trees into the air, the ominous flutter of their wings fading quickly. Without warning a very dark stream of smoke billowed out from a sewer grate nearby. It was as thick and black as the smoke that had poured from the Starkhaven Circle Tower the night it had burned to the ground. Faster than Samantha could blink, Maferath and Hessarian both disappeared beneath the rapidly spreading smoky blackness.

She let out a small, involuntary yelp, dropping her shoes to the stone while Keis and Traven drew their weapons in synchronicity. Traven's battleaxe dwarfed Keis' sword and shield, but they both moved with such grace, as though their weapons were part of their bodies, and Samantha remembered how Corbinian had always moved the same way.

Traven turned to Keis and yelled something, but that was when Samantha noticed that it wasn't deathly quiet, it was actually so loud that she couldn't hear anything distinct. Like a wind that deafens everything, the noise was fuzzy and enveloping, like the smoke. Eventually, Traven grabbed Keis' shoulder and yelled again. Keis nodded, turning her gaze to the direction of the Chantry – apparently she had understood him. Samantha looked back as well, but the smoke was so thick that she couldn't see past a few feet, and what lay beyond that was anyone's guess.

 _Not again, not again, not again_ began beating through Samantha's mind like a horse's hooves, chasing down her hope that everything that would be all right.

Keis wrapped an arm around her, yelling into her ear, "Move!"

The command seemed a little ambiguous at first until they began to walk slowly together in the direction of the Chantry's doors. Samantha closed her eyes, coughing from breathing in the smoke, and she pulled her shawl up to cover her mouth, tripping up the stone steps and stumbling hard into Keis as the woman came to an abrupt halt. Samantha opened her eyes.

She had only ever seen pictures of demons, and those drawings clearly did not do them justice, for the _thing_ that arose before her was as frightening as anything she had been dreaming about for the last year. It was made of thick smoke, swirling and smooth, coalescing around itself with a strange and just barely visible fiery core. It was unbearably hot, like staring into a fireplace, burning her eyes for keeping them open. Its only other discernible feature was its eyes, which were an unnatural green. Just like Innley's had been.

 _Innley_.

For one everlasting second, everything seemed to stop and there was nothing in the world but the silent wind, the searing heat, the gleam of Keis' sword, and the looming pillar of black death reaching for the pair of them. But the moment was broken by the battle cry of a woman who wasn't going to fail in her duty.

Keis' arm snaked around Samantha's waist, pinning her to the warrior's armored body while her shield protected Samantha's back. Suffocated by fear, Samantha watched the warrior swing her sword across her body in a wide arc, the blade passing through the creature's center without impact. It was incredible; without so much as a twitch in reaction to the blade, the monster reached for Keis, and Samantha instinctively flinched away from its smoky grasp. The terror shooting through her made her want to run, to scream, and she wondered if maybe the Maker had heard her earlier when she wished for death. Maybe He would take her now.

Keis pivoted until her sword noiselessly sliced through it again, and this time the creature seized violently for a few seconds before it simply dissipated into nothing. Samantha was still cowering at Keis' side, staring at the empty space before them, dumbfounded at where it had gone and terrified of it coming back.

"What was that?" Samantha yelled over the deafening fuzz, tasting tears that were dripping into the sides of her mouth.

"A shade!" Keis answered, regripping her sword. "Keep moving!"

A shade. A demon. _A demon_.

Samantha doubted she could move, her mind jumping back into that hallway with the terrible tinkling and the rolling and the whimpering, but Keis jerked her back to the present. Samantha's eyes snapped to her protector's, which were made of jade, hard and cold.

" _I said,_ _move_!"

Intimidated into motion, Samantha's body twitched to life, stiffly moving up the stone steps of the Chantry. Two more shades appeared between them before they made it to the doors, and at each encounter, Samantha felt more and more certain that she was going to die. But once at the top, just when she thought they would go inside the Chantry and Andraste would open her arms and embrace her in the afterlife, Keis hesitated.

"What?" Samantha asked impatiently, her knuckles white from gripping her shawl.

"I can't be sure there aren't demons inside," Keis responded pensively. "Nor do I want to endanger anyone in there by opening the doors. We're going to have to stay here. More Templars are likely on their way if not here already."

 _Andraste's mercy!_ Was Keis keeping her alive to spite her? Samantha wanted to sink down to the stone, curl up into a ball and cover her ears, but Keis wouldn't let her do that either, just in case they needed to move quickly. So they huddled up against the Chantry doors and waited while Samantha pressed her face into the cold metal of Keis' armor to keep from getting sick with fear, with anger, with bitterness. After a few moments, they could hear clanging, like metal on stone and then crackles, as though metal was meeting magic. Keis had been right; the Templars had arrived.

It wasn't long after that the smoke unceremoniously disappeared. Just like the demons – the shades. It reminded Samantha a little of a summer storm she had seen once, how the dark grey clouds just suddenly parted to be replaced by white puffy clouds and a bright blue sky. That was exactly what this had been like. It was sort of surreal to see a group of bloodied Templars appear as the smoke shrunk away.

Several Templars milled about, inspecting themselves and each other. One of the Templars had his foot on the back of a mage whose face was pressed hard against the granite path. A little ways away, a Templar hunched over another smaller Templar who lay face down in the dirt, blood pooling from somewhere underneath the body.

"You guys all right?" Traven called out to Keis, and Samantha followed his voice to see another Templar sheathing his sword and setting his shield on his back. Samantha recognized the armor markings as only worn by a Knight Captain in the Templar Order.

Keis turned to Samantha, lifting her chin and moving it from side to side. "Are you injured?" Samantha fussed against her, which Keis took as her answer, calling back to the Templars, "We're fine."

"Right." The Knight Captain smiled broadly at Keis. "Good thing you were here or that girl would have been toast."

"What happened?" Traven asked him.

"We were surveying the ruins of the tower, there had been reports of—" He glanced at Samantha. "— _activity_. Imagine our surprise to learn that the dungeons of the Circle Tower didn't burn like the rest of it."

The dungeons. Where Innley had been. How many of those windowless chambers had been forgotten? How many mages died chained to the wall with nothing but the sounds of death in the air? Samantha felt like she was going to be sick.

"We found this mage down there, crawling through the catacombs like a worm." The Knight Captain gestured to the woman who was squirming and complaining under the boot of one of the Templars. She had a black eye that was swelling quickly. Her blonde hair was half-caked in blood, and her robe was torn and burned. She was also profoundly dirty, from head to toe.

"I have a name if you'd bother—!" The mage's outburst was rewarded with a yank of her hair and orders to quiet down.

"Probably trapped this whole time." The Knight-Captain sighed, speaking like she wasn't there. "She ran when we got to her. Led us all through the sewers. I guess we shouldn't be surprised that she wasn't able to fight off demons while she was alone down there."

Traven reset his battleaxe upon his back. "An abomination?"

"I don't think so." The Knight Captain derisively looked down at her. "Maybe just a blood mage. In either case, she called those demons to aid her escape."

"I did not!" she protested. "I was running from them!"

"Don't make things worse for yourself, girl." The Knight Captain's voice was biting.

" _Elsa_. And I am not a blood—"

He knelt down beside her and said quietly, though still loud enough for Samantha to hear, "If you don't shut up, I'll be forced to silence you."

Elsa stayed quiet.

Traven looked to the rest before his gaze settled on the lone fallen Templar. And then he said a name that Samantha recognized: "Shay."

"She was down there with this one," the Knight Captain said, referencing the mage as he brushed the girl's blonde hair away from her face. The gesture was too familiar, too intimate, and Samantha shuddered. "Always had a soft spot for mages, that one. And look where it got her." The Knight-Captain stood up, arching his back into a stretch. "Well, let's get this mage off to… Kirkwall, I guess. The Knight Commander there will know what to do with her. Drinks at the Barracks in an hour, Ser Traven."

"Yes, ser," Traven said, and he sounded strange. Too formal. The laughter in his voice was gone.

Samantha couldn't imagine celebrating; Ser Shay lay dead on the granite path in a quickly-drying puddle of her own blood. Samantha remembered how Shay had been a sympathizer, how she had the mark on her armor, and Samantha wasn't quick enough to spy the other Templar's armor plating for similar markings before they moved away. Maybe Shay was one of the last. Maybe she had been helping the mage, the girl named Elsa. Samantha thought of Helena. Maybe helping mages always ended in tragedy.

Several Templars picked Elsa up, and she didn't fight them as they led her away. In fact, she turned to look at Ser Shay's body with a sorrowful expression. Whether it was because of guilt or sadness was impossible to tell. Samantha, Keis, and Traven watched them go in silence.

"Do you think—?" Samantha started but Traven shrugged, his armor clinking loudly.

"It's impossible to tell by looking at them. The ones who are lie, and the ones who aren't suffer for it." He was watching a few of the Templars gather up Ser Shay's body, but he seemed to be looking so very far away. After a moment, he turned back to Keis and Samantha. "I'll walk you both back to the Garritys’."

Keis nodded, and Samantha instinctively took his arm, as though he were escorting her home from Chantry service and not a near-death experience. Of course, this wasn't the first time this sort of thing had happened since the destruction of the Circle Tower. Little fits like this popped up every now and then, though Samantha had never before personally witnessed them. Everyone said that the Veil had been thinned from the explosion, and for a while this part of Starkhaven was likely to be a dangerous place to use magic. Perhaps it had been Keis' constant presence or the Templars roaming the streets during all hours that made her feel safe when she came to the Chantry. Whatever it had been was now gone, as the city that had once been a lavishly decorated playground was now a precarious illusion.

Letting out a shaky breath, Samantha held onto Traven's arm tightly as they began their walk down the granite path towards the Garrity's estate. Standing close to two armored figures reminded Samantha of all those times that she and Corbinian had stood this close. She couldn't help but compare their armor to his, which had been much nicer than Traven's... and eerily similar to Keis'. The cut of the golden plates pieces was the same, the royal insignia was emblazoned on the wristplates, and the fit of the undertunic was tailored to her body – something only royalty or nobility could afford. As far as Samantha knew, Keis did not come from a noble family. Her armor wasn't a set that rolled off an assembly line from just any smith, but rather it had been customized specifically for her in the same manner that the best blacksmith in town had customized sets for the Vaels. Samantha wondered, _Is Keis wearing royal armor? Had Goran ordered her a set made?_ That would have been something, for no one but a Vael had ever worn the royal armor.

"I haven't seen Ser Langley," Samantha said, fumbling for a topic.

Traven deflated a little. "I guess you wouldn't have heard. Ser Langley died in the Circle Tower that night. It was a powerful demon. Keis was there—" Samantha looked to her, but found an unreadable expression. "—Took six of us before it went down."

"Oh." She gripped his arm a little tighter to show sympathy. "I'm so sorry."

"I think the mages went after him."

"He deserved what he got," Keis said coldly.

Samantha remembered the way some of the mages stared at Ser Langley on those rare occasions that he had led her and Corbinian through the tower to see Innley. The mages had looked upon him differently than Traven, and he had looked upon them differently as well.

As they rounded a corner and passed by the Templars’ Building, the Circle of Starkhaven came into view, or rather what was left of it. The workers had cleaned away most of the debris and there were just a few wiry support beams left, blackened from the fire and twisting upwards in torment. Samantha thought of all the men and women who had died right on that spot.

 _It'll take more than that to kill me_.

Corbinian's words echoed through her memory, soot-stained and exhausted, and she could have sworn that she had held onto him in relief and elation just yesterday. All those years ago. Was Goran right? Was Corbinian alive? Would it have taken more than a demon or a group of renegade mages to kill him?

"This isn't what I thought it would be like," Traven said quietly, drawing Samantha out of her thoughts, and Keis actually gave him a sympathetic look.

"What isn't?" Samantha asked, turning away from the remains of the Circle Tower.

"I always thought that the Templars were noble. Something good. But it's always felt like…" Traven gave another sigh. "You know, I think about Innley a lot. How I tore up your letters to him. About what he did to you. It's my fault. Well, it's the Templars’ fault. We have to safeguard these mages from demons—like those we saw today—and we failed with your brother."

"Ser Traven, I do not fault you for the actions of a demon. Innley could have chosen differently."

"Maybe if he had read your letters—"

"He kept his magic a secret from his family and friends until he was thirteen, which suggests that he had considerable control over it." Samantha found her strength returning as she kept talking. "I've read about maleficar and abominations. Unlike you and me, a mage has to look into a demon's eye and accept their offer. You likely could not have prevented what occurred any more than you could prevent the sun from rising. Do not burden yourself."

Pressing his lips into a small smile, Traven seemed deeply moved. He swallowed hard, standing up a little taller before he said, "I always knew you to be uncommonly kind for someone of your stature. You honor me."

Perhaps because of everyone she knew was someone of stature, Samantha had never really thought of herself as such. Indeed, the only ones she felt that way towards were royalty, but standing with this Templar, this man who was the orphan of a whore, she realized that she must seem like royalty to him. It was a little surprising, because he was always a perfect gentleman. Not like the orphans of whores in the stories, who were vulgar and uncouth. Not even like most Templars.

How strange it was that Samantha had been staring the statue of Andraste for a year, weeping in the arms of brothers and sisters of the Chantry, reading through the Chant to try and make sense of all that has happened, but it was this conversation, no more than a few minutes long, that brought some measure of understanding about the events of that night. That it would take something so horrible like that smoky shade…

She looked up at the awning of the Garritys’ estate. It felt like the border to a foreign land, and quite suddenly, she felt ready to move back to familiar territory.

"Lady Samantha?" Traven prompted.

"It's nothing," she said. The events of the day were already fading, like a bad dream. "Keis, I think I'm ready to move into the royal palace."

Keis just nodded, as though she had been expecting this.

But Traven chuckled. "Actually, I was going to ask what happened to your shoes."

As the trio looked down at her bare feet, which none had noticed until now, Samantha laughed for the first time in a year.


	23. 9:32 Dragon, Summer

**9:32 Dragon, Summer**

Samantha had been haunted by Corbinian's eyes for half a year, ever since she had stared into them, impossibly alive, in those paintings. Now she lived down the hall from them, and the first time she had settled down in her new bed, she had barely fallen asleep before she leapt in the darkness, screaming in terror, for she had seen his eyes morph into a glowing and menacing monster. Just as Innley's eyes had been. She had clawed her way across the unfamiliar room, shouting for Corbinian, but it was Keis and Goran who had arrived at her doorway. Goran had been dressed in night clothes, and the sight of him had been so jarring – he was wearing a nightcap! – that she was shocked into laughter. Hysterical, weeping laughter.

In the months that had passed, Goran's presence had become reassuring, and it didn't take long for the pair of them to become inseparable... much to the delight of Starkhaven's rumor mill. The nobles were feverish with gossip about Samantha and the prince. Some days during service, when she caught their whispering, she wondered if she could hold to her courtesies and not scream at them. Benjamin Garrity was the worst, for he was convinced that she had moved out of his estate because, if Corbinian was dead, then the next best shot at becoming royalty was Goran Vael. Once again, his thoughts on love were completely warped by his father's profession.

For his part, Goran paid almost no attention to the gossip, which Samantha discovered was perfectly normal for him. It seemed like he had selective hearing, and many assumed he was an idiot because of this – Samantha certainly had. But she had come to know that he was simply introspective. It was an irony that the Vael everyone thought was so dim was perhaps the most thoughtful. He just couldn't articulate or censor his thoughts that well.

She was sitting on the back terrace when Goran joined her for afternoon tea, plopping himself down in one of the metal chairs that surrounded the glass table. It was the same room in which her family had often enjoyed brunch with his, but all the chairs were empty now, replaced with the ghosts of her once-future family. It was both sad and soothing to sit with them in this place that now felt like her home, and Samantha had started to doubt that she could ever go back to her estate.

"You are not going to believe this," she said, enthralled with a new book; it had just come in the previous day. "The temple where Andraste's Ashes were found was guarded by a cult who believed Andraste had returned to Thedas in the form of a dragon!"

"What?" Goran loosened the collar of his shirt, bewildered at the news.

"I know!" Samantha turned a page. "Brother Genitivi was held captive by these lunatics. And the leader of their Chantry was a man—!"

"Blasphemy!" Goran laughed and Samantha joined him.

"And of course, the Grey Wardens saved him." She shook her head in disbelief as she turned the page. "They didn't name the Hero of Ferelden incorrectly, I guess."

Goran chuckled as he leafed through the day's post.

She and Goran met at least four times a day; breakfast, afternoon tea, dinner, and after dinner in the library. He didn't fill the silence, either, which at times was both nerve-wracking and kind. She had to pry personal information from him because he rarely spoke about himself on his own. But, at the same time, she didn't have to hear about how she should _move on_ , most notably because Goran hadn't. He still believed firmly that Corbinian lived. Before she had moved into the palace, she had spoken with him only sparingly, but now that they had spent more time together, she had come to realize he wasn't anything like he seemed. He was shy at first, to be sure, but all it took was a willingness to listen to him and he opened up like a flower.

Goran had grown up feeling like a bitter disappointment to his father. _Vaels do practical things_ , Goran had said those many months ago, reciting his father's tone so perfectly that Samantha had wondered how often he had performed the impersonation for Corbinian. Fighting, understanding complex systems, being good with mathematics or debate were all common, and very practical Vael traits. Artistry and contemplation were not, but those were Goran's greatest gifts. He had spent the better part of his youth trying to mold himself into his father's image of a Vael, but he had always failed. Eventually, Goran said, his father gave up on him.

In time that ceased to bother him, he had said, for his mother had always seen him as a gift from the Maker. Goran had said she was the only person that he could sit with, that he could be silent with for hours, reading or painting or listening to her sing. They understood each other, and she always knew just what to say to make him smile. At one point during his youth, Goran's father had ordered all his paintings destroyed, but his mother had saved them, hiding them away in a rarely used set of rooms. In the last few months, Goran had unearthed them all, ordering three rooms remade into galleries just to showcase all the paintings. The rooms were a shrine of sorts, and Goran visited it more often than the Chantry.

Envy was a feeling Samantha wasn't accustomed to, but she discovered that her heart wished she had had that kind of bond with her parents – even one of them would have been enough. But she never had. And now they were gone.

Goran resumed leafing through the letters. "We need to finalize the details for your party."

The words on the page blurred, but she put forth her best smile and nodded. Reluctantly, she had agreed to let Goran throw her a party at the palace for her name day. She didn't want a party, but there had been five events already that summer that she hadn't attended, which didn't help the gossip. Fortunately, she didn't have to talk about it, because Goran's attention caught on one letter in particular.

"This one's for you," he said, hesitantly sliding the folded letter across the table, its seal already broken by the Knight Commander. It was from Flora, and Samantha was wondering when he was going to bring her up. The look on his face, or rather the way he was trying _not_ to look, implied that he very much wanted to.

Samantha unfolded the letter to read more of Flora's despair: her father was missing! She had tried to order a search for him, but getting into her estate's coffers had proved too complex a task. She claimed that she must be taking ill, but there was no one to care for her because most of the servants had been dismissed. She thought maybe her family's wealth was gone, but the way her brother Brett brought out family heirlooms had made her reconsider. Fed up with her family and growing more ill by the day, she had begun making plans to move into her own estate – perhaps Ruxton's lordship in Ansburg. Samantha didn't understand what was going on – the way Flora described her family was like a jester's show!

"How is Flora?" Goran poorly acted like he wasn't interested.

"Not well," Samantha said, frowning as she folding up the note. "Her family… She doesn't say so specifically, but it sounds like they are in financial trouble, and she's taken ill."

"She's sick?" There was alarm in his voice.

Samantha watched his reactions. "She says she gets headaches. She has no nurse to take care of her anymore, and her father is missing."

"I see." He looked back out the windows, his gaze distant.

"Do you ever write to her?" Samantha asked, feeling the question was a gamble, because she wasn't sure if anyone had ever talked to him about his obvious affection for Flora.

Goran shook his head slowly. "I don't think I can do that…"

She glanced at Keis, who was leaning against the wall, staring blankly out of the large glass patio doors. Samantha wondered if she was listening to them. "Sure you can."

"It's not that easy," he said brusquely.

Samantha scowled, because she felt certain that it _was_ that easy. "Why?"

"I… " He was hiding something, but she couldn't guess at what. "It's too complicated."

"Are you going to wait for her forever, then?"

Goran sighed, turning to look back out of the window. After a moment he stood up. "I want to show you something." When Keis made to follow, he held up his hand. "It's all right. We'll be back soon."

He led her through his family's wing and took about six different turns through four different rooms. Five months ago, Samantha would have been lost, but she had been exploring the palace and had learned the layout well enough. They finally reached a room in one of the back hallways where it was darker than most. Goran glanced over his shoulder before he opened the Orlesian-style double doors, and the darkness was softened by the light that seeped through the sheer curtains.

Everything seemed to glow on the other side of Goran's dark silhouette. Easels, canvases large and small, tiny bottles of oil paint representing every color imaginable, jars with paint brushes, small knives, and strange-looking tools that Samantha could not name.

All the pictures were covered in heavy white cloth, and Samantha didn't ask before she pulled up the corner of one, because this must be why Goran had brought her here. To see these paintings. To see the way he saw Flora Harimann. And there she was. Her mysterious smile and her those flat cheeks, her long hair with flowers tucked within, and of course her eyes. Those sultry eyes, hazel in every hue, striking and playful, clever and jovial. And laughing. She was beautiful.

Goran's mother was on display, but Flora was still a secret.

She remembered that day that Corbinian had played the lute for her. How his music had lifted her away from the ground and shown her a side of him that she had never known and yet, once she became aware of its existence, had longed to see again and again. It had made her see inside herself to a place both ethereal and real, where the physical world wasn't nearly as important as the dream world.

She turned around to see Goran standing against the doorframe. "I've been painting her for years,” he said nervously. “I don't know how to paint anyone else."

He had painted a lot of people since, but Samantha knew what he meant. She also knew the answer before she asked: "You never showed these to her, did you?"

"I could never find the words…"

"They _are_ your words."

Goran looked from her to the paintings and back again, and she wondered if he knew how much the paintings really said.

She pressed on. "Send her one."

"One of the paintings?" He seemed mortified already.

"Yes, one of the paintings!" Samantha said, exasperated at how long he had held a torch for Flora and done nothing about it.

Goran seemed so anxious, as if Flora were in the room. "I don't know..."

"What harm could it do?" Samantha understood that it was a big step, but she felt certain that this was the path to take.

Though he was still unsure, they sat in the room after dinner, and Goran agonized over whether to send a portrait to Kirkwall. He didn't talk much, and what he did say was so confusing that Samantha thought it amazing he’d ever tried to have a conversation with Flora at all, if just the thought of her could bewitch him so.

Finally, when he decided on a painting, he opted for not attaching a note, which Samantha couldn't quite understand, but at least it was a start. Goran had it wrapped and sent away by the end of the week, and he spent the entirety of breakfast that morning calculating exactly when it would get there, and how soon he might hear back from her, depending on if she decided to respond. It was sort of cute, but Samantha couldn't imagine Corbinian acting this way.

His plans had never seemed to include defeat.

For the first time that day, but not for the last, she had to shake away thoughts that he was dead, that he could have been defeated, and that he wasn't coming back. It seemed unfair that the world was moving forward without him in it.

Goran checked the post anxiously for weeks, but a letter from the Harimann estate didn't arrive until the evening of Samantha's name day party just under a month later. Goran, too embarrassed to read it in front of her, had excused himself and Samantha was left with nothing to do but prepare for the party that she didn't want.

The fashions that season had been long, heavy, dark-hued satins and velvets. Samantha had chosen an Orlesian gown, deep red to match Starkhaven's flag. After seeing her choice, and without thought to the how the gesture would be interpreted, Goran had ordered a vest made of the same color. She didn't say anything, but felt certain that it would only fuel the rumor that the two of them were romantically linked. To make matters worse, when the seamstresses brought the final garment for fitting, the sparkling rubies in the bodice and the cut of the dress drew attention to her curves. She hadn't meant to choose such a sensual gown. Orlesians were also wearing funny tiaras that year; shiny jeweled headdresses that draped over the forehead and the ears. The empress had been spotted wearing a sapphire so large that it had left a depression against her forehead. Samantha's was considerably more modest, but still, the gem thumped against her forehead uncomfortably whenever she turned her head.

Keis insisted on wearing her armor, but at least conceded to getting it polished. Samantha felt that if she was going to have an armored shadow, it should at least shine.

Though Samantha had mentally prepared herself, her resolve proved no match for her heart. When she stepped into the ballroom, the stage drew her gaze. The same stage where Corbinian had taken the Oath. The same stage where he had jumped down with his new sword on his hip, and she followed the memory across the room to the center, to where he had knelt down, looked up at her with that famous wry grin, reaching into his pocket and opening his mouth—

"Lady Samantha Mayweather!" A disembodied voice bellowed from somewhere and Samantha jumped from her memory and firmly into the room, weakly smiling at the guests.

The orchestra swelled, the glasses clinked, and the Vaels’ sycophants fawned over her appropriately. The rest eyed her dubiously; most notably the families with young single daughters. It had been just over a year since Corbinian's disappearance and now they thought she had designs on Goran? Didn't they know how much she loved Corbinian? Didn't they know how she always would? Must she show them her broken heart for it to be believed?

Of course, Goran wasn't helping. The festivities of the evening were as egregious as the palace décor. The Starkhaven Orchestra played all night. There were new tapestries stretching the length of the walls and five large golden chandeliers lining the ceiling. The centerpiece of the room was an enormous fountain that poured a thick, dark liquid – it looked like chocolate! Samantha had heard of Orlesian chocolate fountains, but this was the first time she had ever seen one.

Samantha could hear the crude whispers as she moved about the room, and though she wanted to run away, to hide and pretend the whole evening had never happened, she smiled as she should, because Goran had wanted to celebrate her name day. She had almost convinced Lady Luxley that she and Goran were like siblings when the Prince of Starkhaven interrupted the revelry. He took the stage, just as Corbinian had done, and raising his glass to Samantha, announcing that for her name day, as a special gift from him, he had personally signed her family's will out of probate.

The Mayweather estate was hers.

There was polite applause followed by whispers. Samantha glanced around the room, the thinly-veiled suspicions imprinted across the faces of seemingly everyone. Lips moved noiselessly behind the clapping, speaking close to ears adjacent to narrowed eyes. She remembered the last time she had drawn this kind of ire – after Corbinian and Sebastian had been sent away, but then, she’d had Flora and Ruxton. Now she was alone.

All the anxiety of the day – the party she didn't want, the nobility's effrontery, and the memory of a life that was supposed to be hers – clawed at her heart. Unable to escape the stares, a lump formed in her throat; she couldn't breathe. Just as Benjamin Garrity was approaching her, probably to make snarky comments about Goran, Samantha stumbled backwards, ducking into the crowd with haste. Maybe it was the mass of people or how suddenly she exited but, miraculously, she managed to make it out of the ballroom without Keis in her shadow.

She wasn't sure where she was headed as she ran through the palace hallways, taking turns randomly until she caught a sliver of moonlight streaming into an adjacent corridor. Just down the way, a set of narrow double doors sat slightly ajar, and she slipped through without thinking too deeply about where she was. It was a small room. Fleetingly, she recognized it: the spare library. The large window on the opposite wall overlooked all of Starkhaven, the skyline misshapen from the Circle's Tower absence. Samantha remembered what it looked like before.

_Are those fireworks?_

She had been looking for a hiding place, some room dark enough where she didn't have to see anything. She had erred, because in this room, she saw only Corbinian. He was at the bookcase, his hands gripping the shelves, his sword dropped to the floor, his jacket crumpled at his feet.

She hadn't been in this room since that night and felt pulled towards the bookcase, her fingers running across the wood, imagining where Corbinian's hands had been as he pressed their bodies together. She laid her forehead on the book spines, rolling dust motes into her hair.

_I love you, Sammie._

She closed her eyes briefly, not wanting to cry, but when she opened them back up, something caught her attention. The only item in the room that wasn't covered in dust sat upon a small table next to a chaise lounge in the corner: a teacup. Next to the teacup was an unfolded bit of parchment. It was the letter from Kirkwall. Goran must have retreated to this room to read it.

Samantha felt terrible for invading his privacy, but lifted up the paper just the same, her curiosity about Flora's response overwhelming her self-control. What she saw wasn't Flora's handwriting.

_Goran,_

_I am not sure what new game you are playing at, but I'm not amused. Since we agreed to keep our business just between us, I can only assume the painting is either some kind of threat or a sordid request. But your affections are well known, and so I think we can come to an arrangement._

_First, I will convince my daughter to marry you. She may have spurned you on every possible occasion, but there are methods of persuasion that I am willing to use. There will be plenty of time to win her heart once we are back in Starkhaven at your invitation. It's an old custom, but the palace is empty, so there won't be too many questions when we move in. Perhaps when you produce an heir, the noble families will heed you. If you decline, then of course this dreary game will continue. Is that really what you want?_

_These little ironies may make our decisions difficult to explain to our grandchildren, but the positives far outweigh the negatives._

_Don't dawdle in your decision. While your assassins proved quite adept at tracking my idiot husband, you know that I can elude them for the rest of my life. Can you say the same of your family? The only one you have left? I know you want this to end. Consider my offer._

A sigh from the doorway made her jump and, fumbling like Goran, Samantha hastily tossed the letter back on the desk, turning to find Keis making a face at her.

"Maker's ass," Keis sighed.

"K-Keis!" Samantha stuttered dumbly. "I was… I was…"

"I know what you were doing." Keis stepped inside the room and shut the door.

Her mind was racing – the painting, the mercenary group, his family? She had to think this through, but it all seemed so unbelievable.

"Insulting, isn't it?" Keis' jaw was tight.

"Johane Harimann…?" Samantha breathed. She couldn't believe it, but Keis just nodded sadly. "This is why you've been guarding me isn't it? Why he wanted me to live here." Keis nodded again. "Why didn't Goran tell me?"

"The answer to that is obvious." Keis sounded annoyed but when Samantha just shook her head in confusion, she continued: "Because he cares enough not to worry you unnecessarily. He sent a guard to keep watch over Sebastian, too." Then she added, annoyed: "Hard-headed idiot probably doesn't even realize it."

"He did?" Samantha asked in awe, plopping down on the chaise longue. "Why would Lady Harimann do this? The Harimanns were our friends! All of us! And now she is bargaining with the lives of her own children?" Samantha knew she sounded like a naïve little girl, but she felt like one. "Did she incite those mages at the Circle?"

Keis shrugged. "It doesn't matter."

"Yes it does!" Samantha could feel the burn in her eyes as the tears came. "It means that because of her, my Beenie is dead!"

"He was my friend, too," Keis said defensively before calming down. "He was my Captain. He is dead because his men failed in their duty to protect him, not because Lady Harimann sent assassins. We all failed that night."

Samantha felt suddenly exhausted. "Goran has known this whole time. It must be eating him up inside."

"Yes," Keis said frankly. "It is."

"Oh, Maker—and I encouraged him to send the painting!" Samantha dropped her head into her hands, not caring about her hair.

"He also sent a nurse. The letter never mentioned what happened to her."

Samantha's gaze snapped up to Keis as the enormity of the problem became very clear. Flora was in real trouble.

"What's he going to do?"

"He won't accept Lady Harimann's offer, if that's what you're asking. Beyond that, he doesn't know, yet." Keis extended her hand. "You have to clean yourself up, Get back to your party."

Samantha backed away from Keis' hand. "I can't go back there! What am I supposed to do, pretend none of this happened? Dance and smile and talk to people like everything is fine?!"

"That's exactly what you're going to do." She yanked Samantha up by the shoulders. "Because you have to. Because His Highness put this night together for _you_ so that you might have something normal for your name day. He thinks of you as his sister, you know."

Samantha couldn't help the tears falling then, and Keis swore under her breath.

"Maker, don't cry," she mumbled, and unbelievably pulled out a handkerchief from somewhere – Samantha would never be able to tell where she kept it. "Deep breaths. Come on now. In. Out. That's it."

As Samantha breathed in and out to regain her composure, she realized she would need to tell Sebastian about all of this. He had a right to know, but would he confront Lady Johane? Would this strengthen Sebastian's resolve into retaking the prince's seat? Would Goran fight him? That last notion was confusing – _they were_ _family_.

"You're right." Samantha drew her fingers underneath her eyes to remove the smudges of makeup. "Thank you, Keis. I don't know if I should say something to Goran."

Keis thought about that. "If the moment comes, you'll know."

She followed Keis numbly through the hallways back to the ballroom. She tried to focus, but her mind was still reeling. _The Lady is Johane Harimann_! _Johane Harimann hired assassins to kill all the Vaels_! _Johane Harimann tried to usurp the throne of Starkhaven_. _Had Goran been complicit in her crimes, or did he always try to resist her? And did that even matter, because, after all, he had eventually fought back?_

When they approached the large archway that led into the ballroom, Keis nudged her hard, and she stumbled forward, quickly catching herself and gracefully turning the stumble into a walk as she reentered the revelry. Samantha turned a hasty glare on the warrior, who just motioned for her to turn back around, to rejoin her party. _Maker, she’s infuriating!_ Samantha wished that Keis was less intimidating, so she could be properly mad at her, but when she spotted Goran across the room, the party's extravagance dulled.

The people moved around her or maybe she moved around them, a blurry mess of color with the sounds of the orchestra, forks tapping against plates, and glasses clinking together in toasts. A giant grandfather clock ticked loudly and then faded away as she maneuvered around groups of people. She stopped somewhere in the middle when Vincent Tyler wished her a happy day and she accepted his words with a distant smile and a passing thought of his cat. But she couldn't remove her eyes from Goran. What was she supposed to say?

She tried to reconcile the Goran she had come to know with the Goran that was fighting Lady Harimann. Had he known of the plot to kill the Vaels? Had he orchestrated his survival? That made no sense! Goran was gentle and kind – but had also hired assassins not only to hunt down the Flint Mercenaries, but the Harimanns, too. Could he really be so ruthless?

Goran caught her eye and smiled and she had a flash of him as a little boy. Pudgy and sweaty, scraping eggs from his plate with the same look in his eyes. She would never have thought, back then, that Goran would turn out to be one of the most important people in her life.

The orchestra finished their song and the applause that followed made Samantha feel out of place. A passing servant offered her a glass of wine and she accepted it gratefully, tossing it back before grabbing another as she watched Goran and Lord Fortney politely bow to each other. When he stepped away, Samantha saw an opening to approach him, but Arianna Marziano moved in front of her, smiling with her eyes full of secrets.

"Hello, Sammie," she purred, enunciating syllables no one else would.

"Arianna." She smiled hastily, glancing at Goran. "Enjoying the party?"

"Of course, but a party is a party, no? And all these boys… there is no one new." Arianna flipped her blonde hair around and lowered her voice when she said, "Oh, speaking of boys, have you heard about Sebastian?"

"Mmm?" Samantha really wasn't paying attention.

"They say he is looking for supporters to return to Starkhaven. For the prince's seat. But no one supports him. They all say no." Arianna giggled.

This got her attention. "What?"

"He intends to lay siege on his own home! Can you believe it? That's all anyone's talking about." She wiggled with what seemed like pleasure. "Do you think he'll take prisoners?" Her eyes grew wide with excitement when she asked, "Do you think he'll question us himself?"

In his letters, Sebastian implied that he was looking for support to lay claim to the prince's seat, but Arianna was implying that he was trying to raise an army. An army! Sebastian Vael was returning to Starkhaven with an army to forcibly remove his cousin from power? That idea was ludicrous. And reckless. And unnecessary! And violent! All he truly had to do was come back and lay legal claim to the throne for the council to consider, not march in with soldiers ready to kill on his command! _What is he thinking?_

Arianna glanced over her shoulder, following Samantha's gaze to Goran. "You think Goran will fight him?" Samantha had no idea. Arianna smiled playfully. "Maybe he is the strong silent type after all, yes?"

This was the final straw on an already-chaotic evening, and she shot Arianna a glare. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Arianna visibly startled. "Sammie, I didn't mean—"

"Yes, you did," she shot back and turned abruptly, walking away in a huff.

The implication was insulting. Goran had been so generous, graciously taking in his dead brother's betrothed. He hadn’t had to do that. He didn't have to do a lot of things, and Samantha wanted to defend him to everyone, but felt irritated that she needed to.

After tossing back her second glass and slapping it down on a nearby table, she strode across the room towards Goran. He was laughing awkwardly with Lord Garrity who, Samantha imagined, was probably making some awful insinuation that Goran didn't understand. Upon reaching the pair, she placed a hand on Goran's shoulder, and he actually seemed relieved at her interruption.

"You haven't asked me to dance," she said politely and Goran bowed his excuse to Lord Garrity.

"Thank you," he breathed once they were away. "If I hear one more question about how many bedrooms the palace has…" He slid an arm around her waist and lifted her palm into the air. Arianna was shaking her head innocently from afar.

Samantha wanted to scream in frustration, but instead she said, "You wouldn't believe what Arianna just said—never mind. They are all being rude."

"They are?" He was so unaware about some things; it was endearing. "Don't let them scare you off, Sammie. I saw you disappear once already. People were starting to think you ditched your own party."

"I nearly did." She huffed, scowling at Arianna.

Goran was watching someone else, his expression uneasy. "I should ditch it with you. I forgot that I hate these things."

Samantha looked up into his Vael-blue eyes and he smiled back. _This is the Goran Vael I know_ , her mind screamed as her body discovered that Goran knew how to dance. _He is not a murderer. He's trying to protect his family._ His brows came together slightly as he looked at her.

Maybe he should accept the proposal, just to get Flora out of Kirkwall, but then go back on the deal. It was an atrocious thought, and Samantha could hear her father's voice in her head: _you don’t need deceit to win._ Was there an honorable solution? Was it honorable to let someone else manipulate the world for their own twisted purpose? What was honor anyway if it couldn't save anyone?

"You're probably in shock," he said, though when she gave him a confused look he clarified: "About your estate."

"Oh." She was entirely unconcerned about her estate.

He seemed alarmed. "Isn't that what you wanted?"

"What?" Samantha couldn't concentrate because she was thinking that she would need to tell him that she had seen the letter. She would need to tell him about Sebastian. But would Goran fight him? Would he do anything to prevent it?

"Your estate?" he asked again. "I'm sorry it took so long. I was so nervous it wouldn't be done in time for your name day."

Her head was swimming. "Oh. Right. I don't know—I mean, yes. Thank you. For my estate." Who else knew? Keis – yes. Did any other guards know? Did the guard watching over Sebastian know?

Goran seemed confused as he watched her. "You don't look happy."

Why should she be happy? Her best friend's mother had orchestrated the events that led to the death of her Beenie! The more Samantha thought about it, the more it seemed like Lady Johane had incited the Circle's rebellion to cover it up. The rebellion that had killed Arianna Marziano's father. Lord Kendall. Vincent Tyler's cat. Those events that had enabled to her brother to escape the Circle and brutally torture and murder her parents. And she had watched all of it from the corner of her parent's bedroom, the glass chandelier tinkling in the darkness above and the terrible whimpering—the room started the spin, and she had to close her eyes.

"What's wrong?" Goran stopped dancing, lowering her hand from the air.

Why in the Maker's name did she want her estate back? She couldn't go back there! Not just because she might be safest from Lady Harimann's assassins at the royal palace, but that the very idea of setting foot in that hallway wobbled in her knees. The letter aside, the waking nightmare was across the neighborhood and still lurking in her parents’ room.

She couldn't think of anything to say except: "I guess the thought of going back there—"

"What?" He didn't apologize for startling her before exclaiming: "You can't move out."

"Move out—?"

"It was just a name day present!" he said reactively. "I thought it's what you wanted."

Was it? She couldn't think. "Of course I'll stay here."

"Good." He seemed relieved, and then he resumed the dance.

She had to keep herself together, but he was making it hard to concentrate. After the dance, a passing servant offered her a glass of wine and she accepted it gratefully, tossing it back quickly. The orchestra started playing something whimsical, which usually inspired a group dance, but Samantha didn't let Goran go. She had to say something. About Lady Johane. About Sebastian. _Goran was her family_. The only one she had left.

With the stomping and the clapping, she could talk to him and no one would hear. So, she took a chance. "Do you like being prince?"

He moved his brows together again and she waited through his customary pause before he answered. "It doesn't really matter, does it? I don't really have a choice."

"What if you did?"

"I don't." He seemed slightly annoyed.

She brought her teeth together, unsure how to get him to think about Sebastian's return. Lady Johane was in Kirkwall right now, the same city in which Sebastian was negotiating his return to Starkhaven. Were they working together, Samantha wondered? She shook that thought away, Sebastian would never negotiate with Flora's life like that... would he? He was so good at debate, Samantha remembered, that he could probably convince himself of just about anything.

Goran interrupted her thoughts. "Beenie wouldn't want to be prince, you know. I've thought about that. He would make me do it."

Samantha felt the blood drain from her face. He was thinking about the return of a different Vael. They hadn't spoken about the possibility that Corbinian was alive since the year before, when they had met after the Destruction of the Starkhaven Circle Tower. She felt stronger since then but still, simply talking about the possibility that Corbinian was alive, here in the very ballroom where he had proposed, now during her twenty-fifth name day celebration, after having learned of who was responsible for the Vael family's murder, surrounded by one hundred of Granite Circle's richest nobles who could live on this sort of gossip.... It felt vulgar.

Inches away, Goran seemed unaware of her reaction. "When he gets back—"

"Stop it!" she nearly yelled above the clapping, forgetting her manners.

"Oh." He started back. "I'm sorry—"

"This is not proper conversation," Samantha muttered, though she wasn't sure if she meant for the party, because people were spying on them from all over the room, or because she couldn't handle that thought right then. She huffed out a sigh, because even learning all of these horrible things was no excuse to be rude.  "Forgive me."

"Forgive _you_?" he blurted. "You've done nothing wrong! I'm sorry, you're right. I shouldn't say that stuff. At least in front of people. I mean, these people. You know what I mean."

Samantha felt terrible for her outburst; it had taken months to get him to let his guard down and be comfortable enough to talk and now she was shutting him down. "No. I shouldn't have snapped at you like that."

He sighed, rubbing his forehead. "I spent all last year thinking about how much I hated being Prince. How much I hate having all these people around me all the time. I spent every morning alone and all day with men in suits and glasses who looked at paper more than me."

She marveled at how simply he could turn things around. He was at once infuriating and vulnerable, a complete mystery and yet wide open.

"It does me no good to think about that stuff," he said a little awkwardly.

"I didn't know. You never let on…" But she realized that he _did_ let it show; she just hadn't known him well enough to see it. "Is it better now?"

Goran offered a small smile. "To tell you the truth, I look forward to four things every day: breakfast, afternoon tea, dinner, and then after dinner in the library."

Everything they did together, he used to do with his family, she realized. It wasn't such a terrible thing to admit that he needed people without pretense, and they had become family when Corbinian had proposed. In her heart, Samantha knew that she needed him as well, not just for the connection to her lost future, but to be grounded to the last person who could feel what she felt when she looked at those paintings of the lost Vaels.

His gaze drifted down to her necklace. Though it had the Vael crest on it, he never mentioned it. Samantha had been wearing the locket ever since it had been returned to her, often wrapping her fingers around it without thinking, which is what she found herself doing just then.

"I want you to promise me something, Goran," she said with complete seriousness. "I want you to swear."

"Name it." He was so obliging to go wherever the conversation went; it was sort of sweet.

"I want you to promise me, that if you ever find out who killed our family, I want you to swear that you will hunt them down – every last person responsible – and kill them."

Though all other indications suggested he had stopped dead, he was still breathing; she could hear it. He looked down at her with his Vael-blue eyes and whispered, "Done."

"Maybe part me believes he is still alive," she admitted, and the locket around her neck felt heavy. "But it's not an easy thing to believe."

It wasn't such a terrible thing to admit, and he gave her that sad half smile that meant he understood completely.

"One more request." She knew he would say yes the moment the words left her mouth. "Will you come with me to visit my estate? I don't think I can go back there alone."

Goran reached for her hand. "You will never have to go anywhere alone."


	24. 9:33 Dragon, Winter

**9:33 Dragon, Winter**

The cold was biting. It seeped through Samantha’s hair to her neck, and she shrugged her shoulders to bring the fur collar of her velvet coat up to her ears. Her hands, even inside the fur-lined gloves, felt nearly frozen, but it wasn't the cold that numbed her legs. It was the polished brick walkway, the stone porch, the freshly trimmed shrubs that sat beneath wide windows which framed massive double doors. She looked up to the gray stone frame that arced up and around and back down, like a mouth without teeth. The archway of her estate loomed over her like a tombstone. Her last name was even etched into the stone above.

"It's clear." Ser Traven stepped through the archway of the Mayweather Estate and out into the grey morning.

"As it was six months ago," one of the other two Templars muttered.

Samantha didn't know his name nor did she care.

"Fortunately for you, or else we would all see what a coward you are," Keis remarked, stepping past the glowering recruit and into the estate.

Samantha watched her survey the entryway, cautiously evaluating the smooth tiled floor, pushing back the curtains around the windows that framed the doorway, looking behind plants, and lifting the corners of the rug.

"You think demons hide under rugs?" the nameless Templar asked.

"No." If Keis was bothered by the man, she didn't show it. "I think assassins set traps where they know facing their enemy would mean certain death." She stood up straight and looked over to Traven. "I thought there were tests to become a Templar."

"There are." He sighed, but before the young recruit could speak up, Traven shot him a look and he closed his mouth.

Goran squeezed her hand. "You want to go home?" he asked, and he meant the royal palace.

"No," Samantha whispered. "I've put this off long enough."

"Anytime you want to leave, just say."

With a deep breath of the cold air inside her, Samantha stepped through the archway of her estate. The first thing that caught her was the stale air, though it was obvious that the servants had tried their best to freshen it up. The railing to the stairs looked nearly new; someone had polished it to a shine. There were flowers on the entryway table, sitting in a new vase atop a thin tablecloth made of lace. The house was alight as well, softly aglow as though every window had its curtains drawn open. As Samantha looked around, everything seemed similar to the way she had left it, but something was off. The place had been cleaned, of course, and those things that she had disturbed as she fled her home had been set back in order. Still, it was missing something.

Samantha let her gaze wander up the stairs and she felt a surge of courage as she reached out to the banister to take that first step. Keis moved past her and ascended the stairs, reaching the top in record time before surveying the hallway and then disappearing down the corridor. Samantha held onto Goran's arm tightly as she turned the corner of the stairs, and the steps turned routine as her tongue dried up.

She reached the top and came face-to-face with her parents. They stared out from golden picture frames, their shoulders square and their jaws set firm. Her mother was giving a faint smile and her father was lifting his chin in Mayweather pride. They weren't nearly as beautiful as anything Goran could paint. She had never given it much thought before, but now the portrait seemed so very dull, lacking character and color and movement. They were shades of themselves. These were the corpses inside the tomb, decorated in faded yellows and blues.

She looked down the hallway to her parent's room. "Is the… chandelier…?"

"I had it removed." Goran understood. When she started down the hallway, he said: "You don't have go in there."

"Yes, I do."

She held onto his arm as they moved down the hallway, past the dull portraits and that stupid painting of flowers that used to be Innley, past the lounges and the tables and finally around the corner to her parents’ room.

It was full of light. She looked across the room to the wide-open curtains that revealed a pair of marvelously large windows set close to each other that she had never seen. Her mother always hated opening those curtains, because the room overlooked the gardens of the Tylers’ Estate, and she hated the layout of their flowerbeds. It was a silly thing, Samantha had always thought.

She looked up at the ceiling and, sure enough, the chandelier was gone, replaced with a different one made of steel. It was an odd choice for a fixture.

"I didn't want the servants to have to lower it to polish the silver all the time," Goran explained from the doorway. "So, I had them fashion one with steel. It looks near the same."

Samantha figured it did – it was awfully clever of Goran to think of that. But she lingered on it too long, and caught subtle differences in the way the light reflected off the metal. It had a flat sheen rather than natural silver's textured shine. It was altogether unremarkable, which didn't match the rest of the furnishings.

"Doing okay?"

"Yes." Samantha was somewhat surprised as she surveyed the room, her eyes drawn to the corner in which she had crouched away from Innley. But the room was so bright, so different. She looked over to the bureau, where Innley would always hide when, ironically enough, they played Mages-and-Templars when they were kids, now stuffed with the clothes of the mother he had murdered. The bed was smooth, but the blanket was different; it was a shade of green her mother would have hated. Her mother's vanity still had all her rings on their settings and necklaces on their hooks, and Samantha was reminded of how often she had sat at that vanity back when she was too tiny for her feet to reach the floor, putting three rings on each finger and coloring her cheeks bright red with rouge. But something was missing in this room as well, though she wasn't sure what.

"Which way is your room?" Goran looked back down the hallway.

"First one to the left of the stairs." She gestured and he followed her down to her door.

Her room was a sight to behold. Her bed had been remade with fresh linens and another new blanket, this one was pale yellow. Her vanity was just as she left it, and whoever had taken time to dust each individual perfume bottle had replaced them in exactly the same spots. The curtains were drawn open of course, and the soft wintery light made everything seem clean and soft. Some leafy-green potted plant was set on the window sill.

_This is very storybook of us. What will the bards say when they tell our story?_

Keis appeared in the doorway. "There's no one here."

Goran nodded and Keis disappeared into the hallway again.

"You have a nice room." Goran was staring at her ceiling.

Samantha looked up to see the chandelier that she had never paid much attention to. It was a nice fixture, and she remembered how her mother had gone on and on about how many candles it would hold – thirty. Of course, her father declared it a fire hazard and no more than ten had ever been lit at once, and only because Samantha had begged to see it when she was ten.

"Is that you?" He pointed to a painting on the wall.

"Yes." Samantha had forgotten about it.

Her father had it commissioned when she had turned five in celebration of when she finished her very first book, a silly little collection of poems called _Odes to Bees_. In the painting, Samantha was sitting on one of the wrought-iron benches in her estate's gardens. She was wearing a light-blue dress with a full skirt, puffy sleeves, and a long ribbon in her hair, which had been nearly blonde in her youth. Samantha stared at the girl who had her gaze pointed down, her tiny hands holding a too-big book, one foot dangling down from the bench, not reaching the grass, and the other tucked underneath her, hidden from view. That little girl never saw any of this coming.

"It's very soft." Goran was talking about the brush strokes. "Look at the way the colors don't have clean lines. See how they bleed into each other a little bit? It's like someone painted this to look intentionally fuzzy. Like a memory."

Samantha stared at the little girl who was just a memory.

"It's beautiful." He touched the frame, making sure it was lined up right.

Only Goran would see this painting and think it was beautiful, but looking at it brought about feelings of dread in Samantha. It was like she was looking through a window and seeing the past, and she wanted to warn the little girl of what was coming, but she couldn't. She could only watch as the child tiptoed slowly through a darkened hallway to the soft light emanating from her parents room while loud booms from someplace close shook the floor.

"Sammie?" Goran placed his hand on her shoulder.

Maybe she knew she would cry all along, but she never thought it would be from looking at this painting. It came to her then: what was missing in her parent's room was her parents themselves. What was missing in the hallway was the sounds of people. What was missing in the entryway was the servants. The furniture was different, the linens were different, the air was still. The house was a tomb and Samantha wondered if she would die in it, too.

"How do you do it, Goran?" She let the tears fall, plunking down on her velvet coat.

His silence was enough to relay his confusion at the question.

"You live in the palace where you family died. How do you stand it?"

"I'm the prince," Goran said sadly. "I have to live there."

Of course he did. Generations of Vaels had lived in that place, and eventually they all died there; from war, from disease, or from old age if they were lucky. But, unlike Goran, Samantha didn't have to live with the ghosts of her family, instead feeling content to keep him company with the ghosts of his.

"How did we get here? One minute you're happy and everything is great, and the next…" She remembered her last conversation with Flora. "Everyone moves."

Goran gently extended him arm across her shoulders and said nothing, and they stared at the painting that was just a memory, the remains of her innocence blurred on the wall. Another corpse in the tomb.

She figured there were some manners that all men had, and some manners that didn't matter, but knowing when a friend needs a shoulder to lean on trumped all of it.

"I need to…" She took a breath to compose herself, turning away from the painting. "I wanted to get some things."

"Take your time."

There was one thing she had been thinking of in the months prior to this visit. It was sitting upon her vanity, untouched by anything but time. Sliding it off the smooth glass, Samantha marveled at each diamond's perfect clarity, the band of promises that never was: her engagement ring. She had taken it off the night before, setting it in a ring-stand upon her vanity where it had remained for years… until this moment. She tilted it in her fingers, the gemstones caught the light and twinkled optimism, a bright promise of a future that now seemed like a lie. But if she believed as strongly as Goran, perhaps not. She slid the ring onto her finger.

The drawers of her vanity were sticky, and she yanked them open with effort. Ruffling through her stale underthings, she came to a pile of letters – Corbinian's letters – tied together with a lace ribbon. They were still here. She brought them up to her chest and silently thanked the Maker for sparing this last piece.

She led Goran down the stairs and through the main hallway to her father's study. If she was going to run her family's estate, she should have some idea of where to start. She had spent so many years angry at her parents, frustrated at what she perceived as their preoccupation with her social status, and yet at the sight of his faded mahogany chair, the leather stiff from neglect, she was overcome with the longing to see them again. To hear the decisiveness in her father's voice, the scratching of her mother's quill, the silence within which they seemed so content. Her father's spectacles lay gently beside an open book. The small, wire-framed glasses were cold to the touch. The book was a ledger, a list of names and numbers and dates neatly printed in her father's meticulous handwriting. She would need to learn this, she supposed. She would need to keep the family estate running. That or liquidate her family's investments. Maybe the job of deciphering her family's estate would give her purpose. She could do this. She would do this.

She gathered the ledgers, other files that looked like summaries of her father's investments which seemed to be the family's primary business, names and addresses of other known business associates, and all the unopened letters that had been delivered since the Knight Commander released the post. The stacks of letters were tied together tightly with brown packaging string, at least twenty letters to a bundle, and there had to be at least a dozen bundles. It seemed investments was a business conducted almost solely by post. It was going to take a long time to sort through these, and Samantha suddenly felt overwhelmed at the workload. _  
_

She turned back around. "I'm ready to go."

She leaned on his arm all the way back to the Royal Palace, but couldn't get that painting out of her mind. Why had it had such an emotional effect on her?

"That painting on the wall, the one of me sitting on the bench, it was clearer than that time in my own memory," she said to him. "What does that mean?"

Goran gave his usual pause, thinking about her question. "My uncle once said that if you think really hard about something for too long, it'll change in your mind. It's why he said not to wait too long before you decide what to do about it, because the details often fall away."

Samantha smiled at his memory. "When did the prince say that?"

"Uh." He fidgeted. "One time when I was a kid. I guess."

That was a strange answer. "You guess?"

"Well…" They rounded the corner to the palace, and the iron gates came into view. A group of guards saw them coming, and began calling for the massive gates to be opened. "I was thirteen."

Samantha did the math in her head and realized: "When Sebastian was exiled?"

A guard nearby turned his head sharply, hearing the exiled prince's name, and she and Goran both turned a few shades of pink, hurrying to get inside. But Goran remained quiet, and she could see that he was not prepared for the question.

She placed a hand on his arm, trying to prevent him from running off in the name of princely duty. "Please Goran. Beenie never wanted to talk about it."

"That's because we were told not to," he said shyly as he handed his coat to a female elven servant who never looked away from her toes. "But I suppose it can't hurt. Everyone who was in that room is gone…"

He led her up the stairs and down the hall into his private study. It wasn't the Office of the Prince, which was near the center of the palace, nor was it the Palace Study or the Prince's Study, but rather, the Prince's _Private_ Study – Samantha had been working hard to keep all straight. They both set themselves on a thin-cushioned sofa, and then Goran took a deep breath. What he remembered was fragmented, but it was the first time he had ever been to a meeting of the royal family and thus the event was vivid in his memory.

He told her about the room, the Grand Room, and the intensity of it. He had been seated next to his mother during the meeting, and she had kept her hands on his shoulders – he remembered her grip was tight. Corbinian and Sebastian, both sporting bruises, stood at the front of the room while the prince was seated at the front of the table, his chair turned to face them. The same chair that Goran sat in every day – he remarked that the first time he sat in the chair as prince, he had felt so overwhelmed, he’d had to retreat to the lavatory to vomit.

"Bruises?" Samantha felt foggy with memory.

Goran smiled at the memory. "Yeah, they got into a big fight right in the front hallway. Took four guards to pull them apart. Keis was there, I think. She's been everywhere."

_I don't duel cousins for just anyone._

Goran continued to explain: "Beenie and Sebastian were given the opportunity to explain themselves. Sebastian said… " Goran glanced at Samantha, an embarrassed flush blooming in his cheeks. "I only really remember what Beenie said."

He paused again, but Samantha was too eager and prompted him in a tense whisper, "What did Beenie say?"

"Well, he yelled actually. He screamed like an Alamarri barbarian. He…" Goran fidgeted. "He said that… that Sebastian had… well… he used the word _rape_."

Samantha's mouth dropped open, her breath catching in her throat and, for a moment, she thought her heart would stop at the shock. Sebastian did not _rape_ her!

Goran spoke quickly after that. "Sebastian's mother was in tears. No one could believe it. But Sebastian, he didn't deny any of it. None of it. He stayed completely silent while Beenie described what happened in detail. He wasn't passed out on Lord Garrity's porch, but he was so drunk that he couldn't move to do anything about it. That's why he was so mad. Mostly at himself, but also at Sebastian."

Samantha retreated to the back of the sofa, slinking down and shifting her eyes around the room until they found a painting of calla lilies encircling a great fountain – it was the fountain in the palace gardens. The same fountain at which she and Beenie had often paused to rest on countless summer strolls. She could hear Goran talking, she could hear him mention Sebastian's name, and she could hear him describe the events as Corbinian saw them, but she felt no panic at Goran's misunderstanding of the events of that night, and instead she felt warmed by the memory of those afternoons at the fountain.

"Finally,” Goran said, “they came to an arrangement, everyone was sworn to secrecy, and they said their goodbyes. And that was it." He let out a deep sigh, as though relieved the story was over.

The word _arrangement_ pulled Samantha back into the room. "What arrangement?"

"Beenie never told you?" Goran seemed impressed with his brother. "When he volunteered to take the Oath of Starkhaven, our father offered to send Beenie away to Nevarra to live with the Pentaghasts. To prove he could reform his behavior."

"Why didn't Sebastian have a similar arrangement?"

Goran paused, frowning in thought. "He didn't seem to want one. Beenie had been so… loud… during the meeting. He didn't want to be sent away."

Samantha remembered what Corbinian had told her about that night. "You mean, Beenie argued that he shouldn't be exiled, but Sebastian didn't?"

"I've never seen my brother so mad," Goran remarked quietly. "But I guess so. I mean, Sebastian didn't… At least, not in front of me."

"He said nothing?" Samantha reached up and placed a hand over the locket that always decorated her neck.

"He didn't even apologize."

Somewhere inside, someplace deep, a once-tiny dark hole began to widen. It crept up her neck and into her mouth, and for a few brief moments, she wondered if she was going to cry. Disappointment, fear, panic, helplessness; like tides of black water, the sensations washed over her and then began to recede as a warm fountain's wet memory blanketed her limbs.

When she spoke next, her voice was measured and sure. "He behaved poorly, but he did not—"

" _Poorly_?" Goran sputtered. "He forced himself on you and only stopped after you bit him!"

The untrue words _forced himself_ stung her ears, and she shook her head violently. "It wasn't like that—"

"Why do you defend him?"

"Because that's not what happened! Sebastian is a good person, he wasn't himself, but—"

"I can't believe this! You _are_ defending him!" Goran was interrupting her again. He did this when he got flustered or angry.

She was growing irritated as well, and when he finally paused, she threw the truth from her mouth before he could stop her. "He did not _force himself_ on me. He was very drunk – so was I, by the way – and he kissed me. I tried to push him away, but you know Sebastian – he's strong! So, I bit him, and that's when he stopped."

Goran's pause was longer than usual, and when he spoke, he sounded greatly offended. "He kissed you without your consent?"

Samantha let out a frustrated growl. "You're not listening to me! It was nothing but drunken stupidity! Besides, doesn't Andraste teach us to forgive? He apologized sincerely to me, and I forgave him. It's been ten years, Goran. Surely, you look in the mirror and don't see a thirteen year old boy."

"No," he said frankly. "I see a man who has never forced himself—

" _He didn't do that!_ " she yelled, feeling attacked.

Goran cringed at her verbal assault, and when he looked down at his hands, she felt terrible for losing her temper. She opened her mouth to apologize, but he interrupted again.

"I'm sorry for upsetting you," he said earnestly. "But, This wasn't some—" Goran paused, searching for the right words. "—failure at etiquette. No prince – no son of the prince – should behave like he did."

She tried to reconcile the look he was giving her with the forcefulness of his words. It reminded her the way her father would look at her when he talked about Adain, like he wanted to protect her from all the bad things in the world, as impossible as that was. Goran clearly wanted to protect her, too. All she had to do was look at Keis to see that.

"He didn't injure me," she insisted, now attempting to comfort Goran. "Beenie may have seen more than what was there because of his feelings for me. If he were here today, he would tell you that Sebastian is very different now. He is devoted to his vows, to living a holy life. Believe me, we've exchanged many letters."

"Are you still?" Goran seemed very interested in the answer.

Samantha snapped her mouth shut, instantly regretful that she had just admitted to corresponding with Sebastian – something she hadn't told anyone about because of her promises to both Sebastian and Taletha. She didn't want to lie to Goran, though. "A few. He is—"

"When was the last one?"

Samantha sat up. "Why?"

"I'm curious." He narrowed his eyes.

"You see the post come through every day—"

"But never a letter from him."

The sudden tension between them was unmistakable; it was the first time that Samantha had ever felt it. Always so open, so transparent in his emotions, but now he looked to her like a frozen pond, opaque with suspicion.

The sudden revelation of her secret brought about tremendous guilt, and the way he was regarding her with trepidation seized her heart with panic. Why was she trying to force Goran to forgive Sebastian, anyway? That was his decision, just as it had been hers. Sebastian was her friend, wasn't he? No matter how great the folly, a singular night of drunken stupidity – Sebastian had mistaken her drunken revelry for a flirtatious invitation – wasn't reason enough to give up on him. Hadn't she committed sins in similar revelry?

If he had wanted to commit himself to the act, he could have advanced upon her even after she’d bitten him, but he hadn’t. He had walked away. He _had_ stopped.

"I am sorry," Samantha said but Goran didn't seem ready to accept it. There was only one thing that she was good at: the truth. Goran was her family, and she owed him that. She took a deep breath and said, "You're right. I've been writing to him, sneaking letters through a chanter so they won't be intercepted by the Knight Commander. She has been carrying our correspondence back and forth between us for a year. I told him about the Flint Mercenaries—" Goran's gaze sprung back to her as if from a slingshot. "—and about Lady Harimann. I overheard you and I found a letter from Kirkwall that I thought was from Flora. _I wasn't spying_. I found these things accidentally. I'm truly sorry that I didn't tell you about it then."

She felt afraid that he would think terrible things about her because she had deceived him. Afraid that he would kick her out of the palace. But it wasn't the living arrangements that made her tear up – it was the idea of losing Goran Vael, her best friend. Mostly, she was afraid he would think their friendship had been a lie, too.

Once he saw her tears, he pushed his fingers through his hair with a tired sigh. "Sammie… You endanger yourself for a—he's not who you think he is."

"He is my friend. Just like you are," she said sincerely. "He didn't deny what he was accused of, did he? He didn't call Beenie a liar?"

"No…" And then he shook his head. "I'm not going to stand aside if he decides to come back. I don't care how terrible I am at being prince. What he did… There are consequences for that. He lost his birthright. He accepted that punishment. If the prince's seat is to mean anything, it's that decisions aren't made meaningless when the prince dies."

Samantha thought that was the most eloquent thing Goran had ever said.

"What if he comes back, but not as prince? What if he asks to come back?"

Goran hemmed a little, eventually bringing his eyes back to hers, but they were hardened in decision. "Stay here. I'll be right back."

He disappeared from the room, and Samantha noticed Keis watching her from the hallway; she had heard the whole thing. She had been right, too; Keis had said that Samantha would tell Goran about her discovery of Lady Harimann's letter when the right moment presented itself. And it had.

Goran returned in short order and sat down next to her, looking somewhere between guilty and shameless as he handed Samantha a carefully folded up bit of parchment. It had a broken seal – Sebastian's seal from Kirkwall. Samantha's mouth dropped open.

"What is this?" she asked him.

"It's a letter from him," Goran said self-righteously. "I knew you were exchanging letters. I've known for a while. But when… well, read the letter."

Samantha couldn't remove her eyes from him as she unfolded the note. Its corners were worn like it had been read again and again.

_Dearest Sammie,_

_I'd been staring at this page for a long time, unsure what to write, until it occurred to me that you have lost as much as I and deserve to know who was responsible. I want you to prepare yourself, because I intend to tell you the truth about what happened._

_After I received your letter, I decided to confront Lady Harimann. It was reckless, but I asked for help from the Fereldan refugee that I hired to hunt down the Flint Mercenary Company, a colorful character named Hawke. It turned out to be a wise decision._

_First, I want to reassure you that Flora, Ruxton, and Brett are all safe and mostly unharmed._

_When we first entered the estate, we found there were no guards. Some rooms were well kept and others were in a shambles. We found Brett boiling the Harimann's golden heirlooms down to a liquid. It looked like he intended to pour it over some unfortunate servant girl's head. We found Ruxton in his quarters with an elven slave, and he was forcing her to do unspeakable acts of a sexual nature. We found Flora down in the wine cellars, more compromised than I have seen anyone, mumbling to herself. But perhaps the worst thing we found was in the basement._

_We discovered Lady Johane on her knees begging for power from a demon. The discovery that she was a mage was shocking enough, but it was the demon that surprised us all. It had a name. I thank the Maker that Hawke was with me, for I don't think I could have survived the encounter alone. It used Lady Johane's desire against her, promising her power to rule Starkhaven while feeding off her family. I had heard that my father asked her to leave, but I sincerely doubt that he thought she would use these methods to return._

_I killed her, Sammie. I put arrow after arrow into her chest until she was dead._

_That's not the worst part, either. Before I killed her, the demon spoke to us, but it was the things that it spoke inside my head that have shaken me to the core. I have felt things that I haven't felt in years; jealousy, avarice, vengeance. I know that demons can often see into the weakest parts of us, but somehow everything felt wrong. Even now, after hours of prayer, I don't know if what I have done is a sin or if it is justice. Are my plans to return to Starkhaven born from sin as well? I thought the Maker wanted me to be prince, but now I wonder if he was testing my faith._

_Flora came to me on numerous occasions and I turned her away every time because of my selfishness and shame. What kind of leader turns away from their friends? I told her we were friends, but I haven't been a very good one. I will visit her soon. No doubt she is shaken with her own experience and the loss of her mother._

_I'm sorry to burden you with my own personal struggles, Sammie. I thought that avenging my parents’ murder would bring me peace, but it has only brought more anguish. I don't expect you to have the answers, and it pains me to bring you this news, because the last thing I want is to cause you any more pain._

_Please write to me._

_Maker guide us through this difficult time,_

_Your friend, Sebastian_

After the relief that Flora was alive washed away, Samantha lifted her palms to her eyes and started to cry. Goran reached over and did what came naturally: he hugged her close. His embrace was comforting, but in that moment she felt like a failure. Goran was her friend more than Sebastian had ever been, and yet she had deceived the former to conspire with the latter. Friendship wasn't always a two-way street, as sometimes it was more important to give than to receive, but aside from the locket that she wore around her neck – that Goran had never mentioned and now she knew why – Sebastian had only taken.

Why couldn't she be mad at him? The things Sebastian spoke about – his vanishing certainty about his life – made her remember the boy she knew before the brother he had become.

Sebastian Vael was polite and kind when his parents were watching, but every girl and boy in Granite Circle knew that when the prince and princess turned their heads, he was trouble – and not the bad kind. He was fun; just the right amount of brash and always up for a challenge. Corbinian had once said that Sebastian was everything a Vael really was but will never show, and eventually she got to see it – in more ways than one. Corbinian was just the same, but somehow he had learned to find the balance between the brash and the pretension, and turn it into character. Sebastian always had a hard time figuring that part out, and it seemed that hadn't changed.

Some of the nobles had called it the Third Vael Syndrome, meaning that once _the heir and the spare_ were taken care of, he was just dead weight. It was a callous thing to suggest, especially about a prince. Sebastian had ignored the gossip, declaring that his parents were just _traditional_ , which meant that they didn't have children for love – they had children to fill roles and Sebastian's role was to lead the archery regiments. Corbinian disagreed, having later claimed to understand the value of titles.

To think that Sebastian Vael had used his skill with the bow as part of some mercenary group was utterly appalling. He was a prince of Starkhaven, not some common street thug. Then again, what did Samantha really know about common street thugs? She certainly had never met any – maybe they had reasons, lives that were littered with unfortunate tragedies that led them down a mercenary's path to slaughter for sovereigns. She supposed every Champion ever named was likely a mercenary of some kind – certainly Champions are never named from amongst polite society. No, she supposed that Champions and mercenaries needed to be hardened by bloodshed, to face demons and live to tell about it.

It was unbelievable that Lady Johane had given herself to such a monster; no doubt she’d thought she could resist its influence. It made Samantha's heart ache to think that she had given her children away to such a creature. Flora and Ruxton.

Suddenly Flora's letters began to come together like a ball of yarn that had been tangled, and Samantha had found the knots. Flora's headaches, Ruxton's perverse behavior, Lord Harimann's detachment, Brett's preoccupation with wealth, Lady Johane's obsession with renovating the basement; it was all at the behest of a demon.

Goran spoke into her hair as she worked to regain her composure on his shoulder. "I learned Lady Johane was killed a month ago. My agents said… they said Sebastian had done it, and I kept trying to figure out how he knew."

Samantha sniffled, and when Goran didn't offer it, she asked for his handkerchief. He fumbled an apology as he handed one over. "Keis said you made visits to the Chantry behind closed doors with a girl, some chanter, but you never cried when you came out of those visits. I'm sorry, Sammie. I know that I've invaded your privacy but I talked to the girl, Taletha. She told me about your letters."

Samantha felt cold. "Taletha?"

"It took some… influence to get her to part with this one—"

"Where is she?" Now Samantha was interrupting.

"In confinement."

" _What_?" Samantha imagined the poor girl sitting on the floor of a dank cell, the water dripping and her hair matted to her head. Echoes of Innley.

"We couldn't let her go back to Kirkwall! What's she's done—" His hands began to shake. "It's tantamount to an attack on the city. What Sebastian has done… it's treason!"

"She's just a girl!" Samantha cried.

"She is unharmed. As are you!" Goran suddenly seemed so angry. "He has _no idea_ what he's doing! He puts people in harm's way for his own _selfish_ reasons! _Can't you see that?_ "

" _What are you talking about_?" Samantha yelled back.

"Who do you think was confiscating his letters after our family was murdered?" Goran worked to calm down. "Our family – murdered by people we didn't know – and he and I are the only two left, and who does he write to? _You, Sammie._ Why not just paint a target on your back?"

" _You_ took his letters?"

"Yes!" Goran said in frustration. "And I'd do it again. How he could put you in the middle of this… it's beyond selfish."

Samantha felt very confused. "Where is Taletha now?"

"Under guard. She's in a room in the southern wing of the palace." He brought his hand to his forehead, exhausted. "It's where my niece slept, actually. The room is decorated for a little girl… I thought it appropriate."

She leaned back in her chair, sharing in his exhaustion.

He shook his head. "I'm sorry, Sammie. But I had to. The council wanted to execute her, but that's not right. They wanted to detain you, too."

A streak of fear ran through her, imagining herself in some dank cell with water dripping.

"At first…" Goran's voice turned soft, almost kind. "I thought maybe you only lived here to spy on me. Get information and give it to _him_."—Samantha shook her head—"But then I remembered that you really aren't very good at keeping secrets. You can't hide anything to save your life. You never could."—And she let out a sigh of relief—"but then I understood. You were trying to save him. You've always been trying to save him."

"What?" The word came out thin.

"He takes advantage of you, your kindness," Goran's voice was kinder than before. "You make excuses for him, you forgive every indiscretion, every change-of-heart you accept without question. You never challenge him. He can do no wrong."

"That's not true," she said quickly, but right as the words left her mouth she had to stop and reconsider. Was that true?

"Everyone is angry with him except you, you know."

That was probably true.

"Why?" he asked her.

Samantha wanted to have an answer, more than she had wanted anything in a long time, but she could only think of one thing to say: "He's my friend."

"He's not Beenie." Goran's words carried so much weight, they dropped into Samantha's stomach like rocks.

She blinked and when her eyes fully closed, the warm tears turned cold and slipped out. "But…"

"I think he's out there, too." His voice was as soft as his hands, wrapped around Samantha's. "My guards scour the country to this day, but Beenie will save himself. He always has. Sebastian… he's not like Beenie."

"I…" Maker… she missed Corbinian with a splitting ache that flowed through her, jagged and rushing like the Minanter River. Was Goran right; was she expecting Sebastian to come back with Corbinian in tow? Was she expecting Sebastian to be like him? Now that the question was inside her head, the answer came loudly: _it's not possible_. Corbinian could be cunning and clever, but sneaking through a girl's window was not the same thing as plotting to overthrow a prince. How could Sebastian not see that?

It occurred to her then that she and Flora never did answer that question that had plagued Flora for all those years: What did Sebastian want? Samantha had to wonder about his indecisiveness, and what it would truly take for him to march back into Starkhaven.

"I read that letter," Goran continued. "He _still_ can't make decisions about his own life – how is he supposed to govern a city? He sits there in Kirkwall, wallowing in his own troubles while the rest of us have moved on. _Starkhaven has moved on._ She doesn't need him. She doesn't want him."

Samantha felt terrible, mostly because she knew that Goran was right.


	25. 9:33 Dragon, Summer

**9:33 Dragon, Summer**

_Sammie, my friend,_

_Thank you for your offer but I'm sorry, I don't think I can come back to Starkhaven. Maybe not ever._

_I am not surprised by your generosity, but Goran's is a bit of a shock. I don't deserve the attention he gives me. I know what you're going to say, and I will write to him, but… What my family has done, what I was unable to prevent even though the signs were glaring… it fills me with rage. It fills me with more than that: with grief and guilt and shame. I treated him so poorly over the years. Why would he forgive me?_

_Some days I am glad that Sebastian killed my mother. Other days I wish I had done it myself. I can't even remember that night. The last thing I remember was that I was getting ready for Chantry service, and the next thing I know Sebastian is waking me up from where I lay on the dirty floor of the wine cellar with the worst headache of my life. I almost wish you could have seen the way he looked at me. The disgust, the pity… that's exactly the way everyone in Starkhaven will look at me, too. It's bad enough coming from him. I nearly lost it right in front of him and his strange mercenary group – that would have been the cherry on top._

_I appreciate your attempts at softening the truth, but I have heard what everyone is saying. Vincent and Benjamin won't write me back but there are those that will, and they have made it quite clear that the Harimann name is ruined._

_I know that my mother was not the only family vying for power in Starkhaven, and that's why I promised Sebastian that I would give him whatever support he needed moving forward. Yes, Sammie, as reparations, I gave him my estate. He said it would never make up for what my family has done, but that he would call on me when he needed me. I can't tell you the pain that his words caused me. His voice and the way he looked at me…_

_You asked about my family. Well, it's not good._

_They found Father's body under a port in the Docks District. Fitting, isn't it? The great Lord Harimann who gave money to those Fereldan rats, killed in the streets and fed to the Kirkwall rats. I didn't even know, because that demon restricted every thought I had. Brett's wife left him and she took the kids, too. She called him a monster, and when we all tried to explain that it was the demon, she refused to listen! I think she went to back to Starkhaven, but I honestly don't know. I can't blame her for trying to salvage her reputation for her children. Ruxton is beside himself, and I don't know how to console him. I won't go into details for his sake, but suffice to say that the demon influenced him to act in a manner that is completely opposite to his nature and now he is a complete mess. It's like he doesn't know who he is anymore. Sometimes I wonder if any of us do._

_What my mother has done, it can't be made right. Everyone I have loved, every place I have called home, every friendship, everything that bears my family's name is now tainted because of her and that demon._

_This is madness, but I am grateful that I still have you, Sammie. It's nice to know that somewhere in the world, someone still loves me._

_Love, Flora_

Samantha had cried so thoroughly after reading the letter that Goran had to arrange for her to receive a sedative. The blessedly dreamless sleep that followed was the best gift he could have given her. But when she woke in her official room, Samantha still felt exhausted.

 _Flora_. Her best friend was suffering. Samantha had written to her insisting that she come back to Starkhaven, offering her a home and protection, but Flora had refused. She was correct in her thinking that the nobles of Granite Circle would be reluctant to accept her back, but Samantha felt a surge of anger towards Sebastian for having worded it the way he had. She had heard of the Harimanns’ demon from him, but many others in Starkhaven had heard from different sources and most of them came from Kirkwall. To Samantha, that meant that Sebastian had been careless with the information. This was all Lady Johane's doing – not that of her family. Understandably, he was upset, but Flora, Brett, and Ruxton weren't at fault. They were supposed to be his friends.

This was not the way things were supposed to have turned out. Flora and Samantha were raised as ladies of Starkhaven, believing that others around the world would look to them and admire them for their taste and beauty. They were supposed to be at once amazing and vulnerable, confident but with softness and mystery. But it was difficult to be confident, with softness, when people were dying. It was hard to be amazing and vulnerable when all that she could muster was survival. There was no mystery is loss.

Samantha had always assumed when she was of age, she and Corbinian would set out to see the world, for as the Marquess' wife, one of her primary duties was to be worldly. She had dreamed that they would go to exotic places and meet all kinds of people; more than just nobility or royalty, but the extraordinary. Scholars, heroes.... She had been excited about leaving the frivolousness of her mother's occupation behind, finding nothing worthwhile about it except mockery. Similar to Samantha, Flora had spurned these notions but for entirely different reasons. She was not amazing and vulnerable – she was amazing and opinionated. She wasn't confident with softness – she was confident with perseverance. Flora was a lady but also a fighter. She had never once fit in with the noble society of Starkhaven.

None of that mattered anymore, though, because they were never going to become who they had been raised to be.

She showed Goran the letter and he only sighed when he read the part about Flora giving her estate to Sebastian. Samantha had only been living with Goran for more than a year, but she felt like she knew him better than anyone in Starkhaven. Truthfully, she didn't know what Goran would do if Sebastian came blazing back into the city with an army at his back, as offensive as that notion was. Samantha hadn't told Goran of Sebastian's plans to return to Starkhaven. But, knowing how indecisive Sebastian was, she hoped that he would change his mind. Or at least, that enough time would pass for Goran to grow into the role of prince.

"What are you going to do?" she asked him.

"I'll send some of my advisors to Kirkwall." Goran set the letter down on the table.

A servant came in and poured steaming hot tea into their tiny porcelain cups.

Samantha couldn't figure out why Sebastian would listen to Goran's advisors. "To do what?"

"To help her get her estate back in order." Goran scowled into his teacup. "I should send another nurse, too."

"Oh! I thought you meant…" She lifted a tired hand to her forehead. "She'll appreciate that. Flora is an idiot with numbers."

"So am I." He offered a small grin, but it didn't match his eyes, which were filling up with worry. "My uncle didn't want everyone to know, but it was just Lady Johane that was asked to leave Starkhaven – not her children. So…Flora can return."

Samantha watched him as he lifted his teacup to his mouth and she thought that he and Corbinian couldn't be any different. Corbinian never would have chased after a girl who showed no interest. Of course, no girl had ever said no to Corbinian Vael. Goran fumbled for the right words, had a hard time keeping eye contact, and regularly checked out of conversations, which made him look rather dense.

Goran was staring at the unfolded letter on the table when he said out of the clear blue sky, "You're my only friend, you know."

Samantha thought that was truly unfortunate, and she reached for his hand, finding his skin hot from the teacup.

"I would do anything I could if you needed it. That's what friends do." He pushed the edge of the letter around the table with his other hand. "Why is that such a disgusting thing from me?"

"It's not disgusting." And that was a fact.

"So what is wrong with me? Why am I now too good for her?" He seemed truly confused.

For the first time, Samantha felt strongly that Goran deserved better than Flora. He deserved a girl who liked him for him, flaws and all.

"That's not it," she said soothingly. "I don't mean for this to sound harsh, but this isn't about you. Flora feels ashamed. Her family…" Samantha felt a little lightheaded at the words. "…killed your family. She feels tremendous guilt over that, even if she had no knowledge of it."

"So, what?"

"Goran." Now she felt he was being willfully thick. "Surely you can see how that presents a bit of a problem with a match."

"No." He shook his head. "It changes nothing. She was as much a victim as me."

Samantha wrinkled her nose. "Many others won't see it that way."

"Who cares what they think?" He said defiantly.

"You're the prince now," she said gently, but there was no gentle way to say this. "You can't marry the daughter of your parent's murderer." But when Goran began to protest, she interjected. "Goran, you said it yourself – the prince's seat has to _mean_ something. It's more than just… decisions and politics. You have to be more than just a man. You have to be an ideal."

"I don't want to be an ideal!" He seemed to realize that his words were naïve, because he laid his head down on the table. "Maker… how did things get so messed up?"

Samantha laid her hand on his shoulder in comfort, and a few moment passed before she said, "I was going to visit the Chantry today. Light a candle for Flora. Want to come?"

"I can't." He turned to look at her and the sunlight caught his hair. He was so striking, so different than all the other Vaels. So much like his mother. Aside from Lady Pentaghast, Samantha wondered what that side of the family looked like. "I have a planning meeting for the new Circle. Construction starts in a few days and everyone wants to go over the plans _again_. Raddick keeps trying to make his office bigger."

Samantha couldn't help giggling; the low-stakes arguments that dominated office politics were ridiculous.

"Oh sure." He lifted his brows in amusement. "Go ahead and laugh. My pain is your pleasure." But it was short-lived as his gaze turned back to the unfolded letter. Goran leaned against her a little before he stood up. "I'll see you for dinner."

She watched him go but her heart sank as the warmth went with him. Goran's hands and his eyes and his hair, the rhythm of his voice and the way he lifted his eyebrows when he was amused – he was Corbinian's brother, there was no doubt. But he wasn't Beenie.

Without really thinking about it, Samantha wandered over to the glass doors, pushing them open wide, and stepping onto the terrace. The stone flooring below her bare feet was just like the afternoon sunshine above her head, greeting her in a pleasantly warm embrace. She wished it could burn away the loneliness. Without a plan and without much thought, her feet carried her through the gardens, past the fountain, through the rose bushes and high hedges and past the gates into the training yard.

There were young men there, sparring with practice swords and they came to a halt when Samantha stepped against the fence. Their faces had no scars, their bodies displayed no bruises, and their armor had nary a scratch. They were just boys, playing at being warriors.

"Specialist Keis," one of the men said, sounding surprised, and Samantha looked behind her to see the tall woman leaning against the gate. Of course Keis was there – she was always there.

Keis nodded to the boy, but she said nothing. He exchanged a nervous glance with his sparring partner before they continued. Samantha watched them for a while, wishing that Corbinian would emerge from the smithy's hut, smiling, his tunic sticking to him and his hair standing up as he walked to the fence to greet her... as he had done a thousand times before.

_Well, I don't think a bit of lace and a smile will work for him like it does for me._

Goran had asked the right question: how did things get so messed up? But there was no answer. It had been nearly three years since he had gone, and she had let Goran's willful disbelief that he was dead hang over her.

She looked down at the ring of diamonds of her finger and knew what she should do. Deep down inside, she knew she should let him go. Holding on to this kind of pain could fade even the brightest star, and Corbinian would never want her to wallow in despair. But that was the thing: he wasn't here to prevent it, and regardless of Goran's stubbornness, something inside her also refused to let go.

Samantha lived in a world where her moods could be outlined in tangible things; the bitterness that lay in earth beneath of her feet, the mourning in the setting sun over the gardens, the despondency in the air that brushed by her legs. With Goran, there was happiness and sadness, measured over breakfast and tea, dinner, and reading. With Keis, there was stillness and boredom, measured over the time between. With Flora's letters, there was despair. With Sebastian's letters, there was irritation and sympathy. Everything else was reserved for those moments when she would wait for Corbinian to come out of the smithy's hut.

But Corbinian wasn't going to emerge from the smithy's hut. He wasn't going to hug her at that fence. He wasn't going to kiss her on her windowsill and he wasn't going to make love to her in her bed.

Keis' hands appeared on her shoulders, guiding her away from the practice yard, because the boys had stopped sparring when she had started crying. After she had calmed down, Keis accompanied her to the Chantry where Samantha lit a candle for Flora, for Goran, for Sebastian, for Corbinian, and lastly for Keis – the only one out of all of them that kept her moving, literally.

As Samantha was kneeling in prayer by the candles, she felt a presence to her left. It was a young girl and her voice pitched high.

"Excuse me, messere," the girl said tentatively. "You are Samantha Mayweather, yes?"

Samantha lowered her hands and stood up smoothing over her long skirt. "Yes…?"

"Oh! Andraste's grace! I apologize for my forwardness!" The girl curtsied low, exaggerating her courtesies. "His Highness, Sebastian Vael, told me to seek you out. He said you would be kind to me!"

 _His Highness_? Samantha glanced at Keis, who was staring at the girl intently. Was this another messenger? Taletha was still living in relative comfort in Goran's niece's old room, and no more letters had come. It had been half a year since she had heard from him. If this girl was a messenger, she was an odd choice. First of all, she looked to be barely in her bloom. Secondarily, her hands were weathered and her hair was coarse like straw, like a servant’s. She was like a rug that needed the dirt shaken out.

"He described you quite well!" The girl's gaze danced over Samantha, who couldn’t help wondering how Sebastian was describing her, because Taletha had said the same thing.

"Oh. Well..." Samantha felt a little awkward, because she didn't know how to talk to servants without issuing commands. "How do you do?"

"I am well, messere," the girl gushed. "I was so relieved when he came to me! He is so gentle!"

Sebastian? Gentle? Samantha tried to picture it.

"I thought I was going to wallow in that house forever, but he saved us! All of us!" The girl looked to Andraste's stone figure. "Thank the Maker for that."

"Yes..." Samantha felt terrible, because she knew she was being rude. "How is Sebastian?"

The girl seemed a little confused. "The last I saw him, he was recovering just fine from his injuries."

Samantha paused, glancing at Keis again, who glanced back. "Injuries…?"

"Yes! We all had to take time to recover." The girl sighed melodramatically. "That horrible man… I thought I would never escape him. But when I stepped into the sunlight, I knew that I was going to be fine. I knew the Maker would guide me to where I was most needed."

"Forgive me," Samantha interrupted politely. "I don't believe I have asked your name?"

The girl's eyes went wide, as though she had just been given some great gift. "I am Arielle!"

Samantha curtsied as custom. "It is a pleasure to meet you, Arielle. Perhaps you could tell me how you met Sebastian?"

"Oh!" She giggled ridiculously. "I'm so sorry! I thought he would have written to you… It doesn't matter. He rescued me – well, he and his group rescued the lot of us from Lord Harimann."

Samantha's fake smile faded, for the whole world blurred, leaving this filthy girl in its wake.

"The awful things he was going to do… _that he did_..." Arielle shuddered at the memory. "Thank the Maker for His Highness! I would surely have perished in that madhouse."

"Madhouse…?"

"It was like a spider's web. And we were the flies."

"Flies?" Samantha asked weakly.

"All of us. The other servants. Lady Flora – she got the worst of it!" Arielle's eyebrows stitched together in exaggerated concern. "Poor thing had headaches that drove her mad. The only relief she could get was from the drink. She was a very sick girl."

Samantha stepped closer. "And Ruxton?"

"The one with the beard? He was a sadist! Horrible!" Arielle's little face squished together. "The things he made the other girls do! I feel so fortunate that he never picked me."

_You are a child._

But he had stopped. What if he hadn't? Had Ruxton stopped? What had he done?

Samantha closed her eyes and before she knew it, she felt Keis' hands planted firmly on her arms, guiding her to a pew. Arielle was by her side in an instant with a fan and there were a few sisters crouching nearby when she next opened her eyes.

"I'm so sorry, messere!" She heard Arielle cry.

"Quiet down." Keis snapped at the girl.

"What?" Samantha's eyes fluttered as she thought of Ruxton: the boy who couldn't look at a girl without blushing.

"Lady Samantha has had quite a day. She's going home now." Keis announced, lifting Samantha to her feet. "You okay to walk or do I need to carry you through Granite Circle?"

Samantha's eyes popped open, envisioning some public spectacle where Goran's personal guard carried her back to the palace, likely over her shoulder similar to how a servant would carry a sack of potatoes. What would the nobles say? She found her voice. "I can walk."

"I'm so sorry!" Arielle wailed as the sisters held her back.

Keis guided Samantha out of the chantry while the girl continued to blubber, unaware of the intensity of her cries and when the enormous doors shut behind them, Samantha breathed in the welcoming silence. The neighborhood was busy, and while she stood on the chantry steps trying not be to be dizzy, she caught sight of Arianna Marziano across the square giving her a polite wave. Their friendship had suffered in the year since her name day party, but Arianna was trying, at least. This was the first grudge that Samantha had ever held. It was at that moment that Samantha realized how petty the disagreements of nobility could be, and how much she missed her friend.

"What was that?" Keis asked, referring to Samantha's near-fainting spell, but her voice was devoid of sentiment, as if she were asking a question for the records.

"Nothing," Samantha answered quickly.

"You stumbled." She didn’t sound convinced. "You nearly fainted."

"I don't recall fainting," Samantha answered blithely.

"People who faint usually don't."

"Yes, but I have a good memory."

Keis sighed loudly, but didn't speak about it again. Samantha was sure she would tell Goran when they returned to the palace, but they were greeted by a squire in the main lobby who instructed them to head to the Second Sitting Room where His Royal Highness was waiting.

Without hesitation, Keis walked ahead of her and Samantha dutifully followed in her shadow as was her occupation these days. Goran was settled down on a sofa looking out a nearby window. It was a big room, filled with plush chairs and small tables. This room was where letters were written, and cards were played; an empty room that was supposed to be filled with ladies and conversation, instead populated by warm rugs and light curtains with candles in every corner. There was an enormous portrait of one of the Vael women, and Goran thought it was Meghan, but he couldn’t keep all the names and portraits straight either.

The prince of Starkhaven didn't stand up as they entered, but when he turned to them, Samantha could see the wetness in his eyes. He was holding a small box, a piece of parchment, and a length of string that dangled loosely from his fingers. At first, Samantha thought it was some kind of memento box but, when she saw the writing, she knew it had come in the post and the parchment was a letter.

"I…" Goran's started to laugh. Or cry. Or both. Samantha couldn't tell.

"What is it?" Samantha sat down next to him.

He sniffled, shaking his head.

"He's in shock." Keis quickly moved to him, removing the brittle paper from his limp fingers.

Samantha touched his shoulder. "Goran? What's wrong?"

"The letter," he said, bringing a hand to his face, clearly trying to calm down.

Keis looked down at the letter, and as if it contained some shock-inducing poison, she too had turned dumb. It was amazing that such a strong woman could look so stricken.

"For the love of Andraste!" Samantha reached out and snatched the parchment from Keis' hands.

But that was a mistake, because the letter described the contents of the box, and when Samantha peered over Goran's arm to see what was inside, the familiar golden metal, the curve of the letters, the proud crest shining back out like a beacon.

It was the Vael family crest. The initials C.A.V. were delicately etched into the golden metal. Inside the box was the armplate that had once been attached to the arm of Corbinian Alexsander Vael.

And at that, Samantha fainted dead away. 


	26. 9:32 Dragon, Spring

**9:32 Dragon, Spring**

_Everything is damp. Including me. The air is thick with humidity and there is this constant buzzing around me as bugs come near and then veer away. My head feels like it’s throbbing with a thousand hangovers compressed into one. It's hard to see. My hair is in my eyes – it seems longer than it used to be._

_Where the hell am I?_

_I push myself up but the ground shakes once, like a tremor within the earth, and it knocks me back down. I have no idea what that was and my head is pounding, but I push myself up again, making it up to my feet this time only to get knocked into some blurry tree by another tremor. But this one is followed by the loudest, most deafening sound I have ever heard in my life and after I fall to my knees, I slap my palms to my ears instinctively. When the sounds dies away, I turn around to see where it was coming from and the most terrifying sight of my life greets me._

_It's a dragon. A real dragon._

_There, through the trees and the vines and the overgrowing plant life and the mist that hovers in the air around everything. It's scales are shiny, like a million tiny blood-red coins that cover it from toetip to tailtip. I can see the muscles rippling in its hind legs as it turns, swinging its tail that is at least two times my height, rotating its round body which is larger than my room, curling its long neck that extends farther than the drawings always suggested, angling down its horns that jut out from its brow like two broadswords, opening its jaw that looks like it could snap my armor like twigs, and bearing its teeth... oh Andraste's favor be upon me, those teeth are longer than my legs._

_I can't swallow. I can't breathe. Aside from a passing though of me Pentaghast cousins and their dragonhunting days, I have no time to assess my circumstance, because the dragon roars, and it sounds like a dozen blaring horns and I slap my palms to my ears once more. It's monstrous. It's amazing. It'll be more amazing if I can survive it. I have no idea if it sees me, or if I am visible, but I am not moving for anything. In a still forest, a running deer always gets the arrow._

_It shifts, grunts, and moves one of its massive feet, which I can now see has smashed something into the mud of this swampy place. It leans down and flays the thing open with its jagged teeth and blackened gore spews out. Poor creature. I can barely see it, but the dragon lifts its foot and it's—Well, aren't I one lucky son of a bitch?_

_It's that infernal desire demon._

_That creature. That's insidious creature that I have fought against so hard, regaining moments of consciousness, minor battles only to lose the war. My hands ball into fists as the anger and bitterness threaten to overtake me and I nearly yell out in my rage, in shock and relief and elation of being alive and free, but the beast grunts again and I am jolted back to the marsh._

_I look up at the dragon. I guess everything has a enemy. But the enemy of my enemy is no friend._

_I'm not out of danger, and I can't sit here forever while the dragon figures out the demon isn't food. I am praying that it moves away, but instead it sits there. It lies down! Maker… some scholars would probably kill to be in my position, to watch a sleeping dragon, to study and observe. But, you know, I think I'll pass on this one._

_My eyes dart around me, scanning the area and trying to figure out how I am going to survive this. I am sitting in a puddle of mud surrounded by green and brown and black and I know that, in a few hours, I am going to be in trouble because I'm miraculously wearing my armor. This is both good and bad._

_My armor will protect me in a fight, but it's also golden and shiny. It's humid as hell here, and this humidity is going to soak me – it has soaked me. It doesn't matter right now, but all of this mud on my armor is going to start sliding back into the puddle in which I sit, leaving me as shiny as a brand new sovereign. I can't sit here that long waiting to be discovered and, if not this dragon, there are probably plenty of other creatures in this place that will likely see me as a tasty meal._

_At first, I wonder if I can get my armor off, but I quickly dismiss the idea. I need it. I can camouflage myself again and again if I have to. I look behind me, to the left and right, but the shrubs and vines and trees are so thick that I can't tell if there is anything to escape into. I look up through the canopy, the light that filters down creates the illusion of a kaleidoscope: leaves and swooping vines and tree branches as thick as my waist. What sky I can see is a threatening grey. Great, just what I need: rain._

_When I was living with the Pentaghasts for a year, we went hunting all the time. Sometimes we stayed out for weeks, and I learned a lot about how to survive in the world. I can use some of that here. I will wait here as long as necessary. Maybe I'll get lucky and the beast will not wake when I move. Or maybe it will leave before I need to._

_But several hours go by, and I’m just listening to the creature sleep; massive breaths taken in and huffed out, vibrating everything around it. After a while, the noise becomes rhythmic and almost soothing. It makes me feel sleepy. But maybe that's the stress of sitting here, or my aches which are starting to come to life, or the hunger that I am now painfully aware of by the resounding rumble in my stomach threatening to give away my position. The mud has started dripping from my armor as well, and I have no choice now. I have to move. I have to go. I have to get away from that thing. I have no idea how far away I'll need to get, but out of its direct line of sight would be a good start._

_Maybe I can just slip away if I'm real quiet, and move real slowly… I lift my ass into the air, effectively bringing me to my hands and knees. I never take my eyes from the beast as I maneuver my legs underneath me into a crouched position and the beast snores loudly, breaths taken in and out._

_Very carefully, I straighten up, using the neighboring tree to help me to my feet and just when I think I am good, a shriek from somewhere above me makes me jump and my neck snaps back and I see it as it swings from this tree to the next. A monkey. Given away by a monkey. My gaze shoots back to the dragon, which is no longer sleeping but instead blinking its eyes and it tilts its head sideways, rolling one of those eyes in my direction._

_It sees me and I don't hesitate as I dive into the muddy ferns, scrambling like some field mouse caught in a farmer's kitchen. But my predator is no plump woman with a rolling pin, it's a twenty-ton scaled lizard that breathes fire. It can take me out with a simple swipe of its very large claws._

_I feel the muck shake underneath me, earthly seizures that throw me around like a twig on a rushing river, but I can't stop moving and I look over my shoulder in time to see the dragon's mouth directly behind me and for a second I think, This Is It. But the beast just roars at me and it sounds like some warped combination of a lion and an elephant. I do the best I can as I fall to the ground at the shockwave, I tuck and roll, but the dragon is right behind me, clawing at the dirt and I roll to my side, changing direction even though I have no idea what's in front of me. The area is so thick that I have no idea if there's a wall or rock on the other side of every brush I burst through._

_The ground rumbles again and I stumble but keep lurching on, and then I feel a searing heat behind me and I briefly look over my shoulder to see a tree swallowed up by a belch of flame and this motivates me like nothing else. I cross my arms in front of me as I launch myself forward, crashing through panes of leaves, the vines and the twigs lash into the skin on my hands and face and—_

_—I am weightless. There is nothing beneath my feet and the air is whooshing from below and the instant it takes me to realize that I'm falling, I hit a million shards of glass that stings my tender flesh and—_

_Silence. My own heartbeat. The inside of a seashell. My ears pop from the pressure. I am submerged in water and I flail about, feebly propelling myself upwards towards the surface, and it's laborious as I am weighted down by my armor. When I make it to the surface, the air on my face stings like mad where the brush of the swamp has given me dozens of tiny cuts. But it's a blessing to breathe._

_I am reminded of those times that I went hunting in plains with my Pentaghast cousins. We came upon a small pond and my cousins all stripped down to nothing and jumped in and I stood there like an idiot because, well, I didn't know how to swim. What can I say? I'm a royal in Starkhaven. There are some things that normal people do that I never got around to doing, and playing in the Minanter is for the "dirty" and the "poor" as my mother always says. Well, on that day, my cousins didn't laugh at me, mostly because laughing expends valuable energy and they are stingy with theirs. Still, they taught me how, and I am grateful for their exception._

_I move my arms and legs just how they showed me and I make it to a muddy bank but as I am pulling myself up, my hands land on something soft and cylindrical and I nearly jump out of my skin when it rears its head and hisses at me. Andraste help me! Is there no end to the number of animals that I am now prey to?_

_At that moment, that dragon's deafening roar from somewhere near spooks the snake and it jolts away. I crane my neck, looking to the top of where I just fell from and I see the dragon's tail briefly as it swings around. I wonder if it's going to jump down here and eat me, but I don't see it. Eventually, I hear another scream from the thing – it's getting farther away – and I sigh with the greatest relief of my life. I am not dead._

_My body wants to rest. My mind wants to rest. I close my eyes briefly, and it feels like only a second passes before I am rudely awakened by a thunderclap. Rain! It pelts my nose and my eyes and I sit up. I must have slept. I feel a little better, I guess._

_My gaze lands on my hands, reddened and mangled by the brush of the swamp, and I realize that one of the plating pieces of my armor, the plate that goes over my right wrist, is missing. It must have gotten ripped off while I ran away from that dragon. Holy Maker! I survived a meeting with a dragon! Now, if only I can live to tell about it._

_I run my hands over my wet face and back through my muddy hair, mostly to get it out of my eyes; my hair is down to my shoulders. I have hair on my chin and jaw; it's a beard. I must look wild. But I don't have time to think of that. My fingers dig into the soft banks of the river. There's a rushing waterfall nearby. The croaking of frogs and buzzing of mosquitoes and hissing and tapping and creaking and the sounds of the swamp infect me with a new fear._

_I am alone. In the swamps. Survival. That is my mission now._

_First things first, I need a weapon. The only thing that comes to mind is a whip. There is no shortage of vines here, and I know I can do better than that, but I will make one anyway. Let's see, there are rocks, twigs, trees – a spear. Okay, that's two weapons. My eyes scour the bank around me and there are pebbles embedded in the mud. If I can gather a handful of those, I can throw them. Okay, that's three._

_I also need tools. Rocks that are large and flat for sharpening, tree bark will function as a second skin over my wounds. I need some way to ward off these bugs before I am eaten alive. I can already feel the tiny pricks on my skin starting to itch. From my time with the Pentaghasts, I know that many bugs are repelled by oils; I start running through a bunch of them in my head: rosemary, cotton, garlic, cinnamon, castor, lemongrass, many types of flowers – that's it. I need to find some grass and flowers, grind it all down to a pulp and rub it on my skin. That should make me look sufficiently freakish._

_My stomach rumbles again. I'm starving. How have I lived this long? Apparently, I haven't wasted away in the demon's possession, and I think that it must not have been that long since I left Sammie… Oh, Maker. Sammie. I hope she's all right. I hate myself for leaving her there, but it was preferable to letting a demon or a mercenary have her. I run my hands through my hair again – focus, Beenie, damn you. Think of her later._

_Since I'm sitting on the bank of a rushing river, through narrow, I imagine there must be fish in it. This is probably a good idea anyway, another dunk in the water, a scrub of my scalp and my skin and maybe I can dislodge some of the swamp from the joints of my armor. I will wash myself wholly after._

_I wade in, moving slowly and once I am about waist-deep, I stop. I am pelted from above and below as the thick rain plunks down into the water hitting me in the face when it comes back up, but I have to remain still. I focus my eyes on what's in the water, and though I am exhausted and starving and my hands are shaking a little from encountering that dragon, I have to focus. I need to eat._

_I see a fish, but my reflexes are too slow and I miss, cursing under my breath. There's another, and I miss again – calm down. You can do this. I focus. The third time is the charm, and while sort of small, there is a fish in my hands now. I wade back to the bank while it squirms in suffocation and I fall to my knees, picking up rocks and tossing them aside until I finally come across one that will work but I have to butcher the poor thing to get the scales off. I pick out the meat and there's not much but thankfully, this little fish is not infested with parasites and I shove it into my mouth, letting the tasteless slime slide down the back of my throat. I tell myself this is necessary as I repeat the process two more times._

_The bathing feels nice, though the water is disturbingly warm. I don't know why I should expect it to be cool, but it's not. Starkhaven sits on the Minanter, a river that cuts through the Free Marches like an old woman's veins. Just to the north is a large and dense swamp – that must be where I am – and the water has to travel almost a month from the Amaranthine Ocean to reach us, taking a winding trip through this place. Now I understand why my mother didn't want me to swim in the river._

_There are things here, creatures both soft and hard that attach themselves to me that I have to rip from my skin, strange things that float in the water and hover in the air and scream from the treetops. I am surrounded. There's greenery everywhere, the marsh is a veritable hotbed of life and I find flowers easily, using rocks to grind them into a fine paste and rubbing the mixture all over me before I suit up again._

_I inspect my armor and all its little hiding places. Though a wrist-plate is missing, I still have my belt which is a blessing, and inside the pouches, I should find healing and energy potions concocted by alchemists and wizards, bandages, a pouch of herbs put together mostly to wake us up on the battlefield by sniffing it, and finally a knife. But all of these things have been replaced by mud. There is one last spot inside a small pouch between my breastplate and the chainmail and sure enough, I snap it out: the Chant of Light. Printed neatly on a small slip of paper by some chanter. I can't tell whether the Maker is watching over me or laughing at me._

_It takes hours, but I manage to forge two weapons. I find a tree, the trunk is lumpy and twisting like veins around muscle, and I climb up, cutting down a long vine with a rock. I have to find a different tree to procure a tree-branch thick enough to function as a spear. The damn thing is near-impossible to break from the tree with my foot, and eventually I have to hang on the branch, jerking up and down like a child at play to get it to break and we both go crashing to the boggy marsh. I pick out a handful of pebbles that will be good for throwing, and place them in my belt pouches along with some smooth flat rocks to use as tools._

_I feel better with weapons._

_I need to move, but where? I have no idea where I am in this place, but I do know that I can't go back the way I came – no matter that dragons can fly and it might have traversed the swamp five times over by now and be someplace completely different._ _I don’t want to risk being dragon food if I can help it. For all I know, they might return to nesting spots or something. No, better to press on to somewhere else...._

_I look up at the sky but there is no sun to guide me and, even if there were, it would be impossible to follow its direction. There is no wind either, but there is that river I fell into. I suppose I could follow that, even though I know that the Minanter snakes through the Marches but branches out like possibilities in this marsh. Following the river could only lead me in circles, but it's worth a shot._

_I follow it but I can't move very fast. For one, this place is ridiculously dense. If someone upended my aunt's closet, it would be similar to that; she has, literally, a thousand dresses and coats to match. I step over high ferns and mounds of thorns and vines and rock and dirt, my feet sink into the mud, sometimes up to my knees and I am sloshing through with no idea if I'm even headed in the right direction. I don't even know if I'm headed in a straight line. It's hard to maneuver the banks because they are so soft, and I slip into the river a few times. I step on a crocodile once, and it's the last time, too. I break my spear killing it, but my armor saves me from a horrible gash in my leg. If the golden plates weren't so strong, I would be hopping out of here. I make another spear, which consumes time and energy, but at least I get a good meal out of the gator._

_There are stories about this place. Men who go out for sport, women who follow visions into its thicket, children who chase small animals past the boundaries, and none are heard from again. The darkness falls at strange intervals when I know it's not night and there are whispers and sensations that I work very hard to ignore as I trudge through._

_Days pass. Nights are uneventful. The river runs me into dead ends, and I have to turn back until it forks in a new direction. I hunt, I eat, I walk, I sleep, but time draws out like a blade in this swamp. The moments tick by and the sounds remind me that I am not alone._

_I've lost count of how long I've been out here when a net lands on my head, its corners tied with complex knots, anchored by large rocks that lodge themselves into the mud. I must have tripped something, something made by a human! This net isn't hard for a person to escape, and I am excited at the possibility of finding some help until I stand up._

_I hear a terrible shriek and spin around to see a woman. She is haggard, dirty, and missing several teeth. Her hair is frazzled like a starburst behind her head, and this funny memory of my Sammie pops into my head, sitting up in her bed next to me with her hair tousled like a madwoman. Like this madwoman's, actually._

_And then the madwoman thrusts her hands in front of her and a fireball the size of a melon flies at my head – apostate! I drop to the ground and cover my the back of my wet hair with my hands, which are tinted green because of the grassy-flower mixture that I have rubbed all over me. Does she think I'm a demon? I look closer to a frog._

_She screams again and it takes me a moment to process but when I open my mouth to call out to her, to tell her to stop, to tell that I am not going to harm her, a croak comes out instead, because I haven't spoken out loud in I-don't-know-how-long. I am a frog, I guess._

_Then I hear her clearly as she screams the word Templar!! and another fireball lands in a bush to my right lighting up like it was doused in some accelerant while I roll onto my back, gaping at the sparks and licks of flame that travel to the trees above me._

_I hop to my feet, throwing my hands out in front of me, yelling, I'm not a Templar! But she just screams and screams and I am screwed._

_Clearly extreme in her hatred of Templars, she waves her hands above her head and a swirling mass of black smoke forms above her; it's a storm cloud but made of fire. Andraste save me!_

_I have no way to fight fire, magical or not, and so I do the most logical thing I can think of: I turn tail and run. I run faster and harder than I have in weeks – or is it months since the dragon? – thrashing through the marsh's overgrown vegetation and I have no idea where I am now as I scramble like hell until the sounds of the crackling and the fires and the screaming is gone, and I fall to my knees, gasping for breath and aching for calories but there is neither here._

_I don't know how long it's been, but this is the first moment that I consider that I might not make it out of here. I push it out of my head; I am a Vael, and defeat doesn't run in my family._

_Pushing on my knees, I stretch back to my feet, but I have no idea where I am or what direction I am facing. I try to triangulate my position based on that mad old lady, but come up in circles. She thinks I'm a Templar, maybe it's the shiny golden armor… I guess that means she doesn't want to help me._

_I pick a direction and keep going, eventually running into the river again. I hope that I don't run into any more dragons or apostates or snakes or crocodiles, of which there are so many it's scary. I start a new count of the number of nights and stop around thirty, but at least I'm alive. I feel like one of those people stranded on a deserted island, but I'm stranded in a populated swamp that is just as treacherous._

_My hair is now past my shoulders and the beard on my face tickles my lips. I have stopped counting the days, as the sun and the moon are hidden on the other side of the canopy. I've never needed rescuing before, but my Pentaghast cousins say that there is no room for pride in the wild. Now I get why. No man is an island. Or a swamp._

_One night, I make a small campfire and peel some bark from a tree, whittling it down to fine point and use the fire to harden it. I still have that slip of paper with the Chant of Light on it which I've had memorized since I was seven, and though Goran's skills at drawing are better than mine, I start trying to draw her face._

_I think about her all the time. I think of her soft hair and the way her hips curve away from her waist, and how she smiles at me when I say something clever. I think of our conversations and the way she looks without her underclothes and how I would give anything to touch her just once more._

_Maker, forgive me for all that I have done and send me back home._

_He must hear my prayer, because one day the narrowing river leads me out of the thicket and into the sunshine. It starts with pinpricks of light filtered from the canopy above, twinkling down like stars and I run with the newly discovered breeze until the trees thin out and grass sprouts from underneath my boots and the amazing sun greets me unhindered like out of a poem._

_Ahh, welcome warmth and light! I fall to my knees and close my eyes, letting the tenderness of the sunshine sink deep into my skin. I have never been as cold as this moment; perhaps the swamp wasn't as warm as I thought, even though I was sweating nearly all of the time. Or perhaps nothing is as warm as the Maker's Light. Praise Andraste for guiding my way!_

_Eventually, I open my eyes but they have a difficult time adjusting to all the light. The world is made of metals; gold and bronze and silver and I squint to adjust. I discover that I am in a field of grass as far as I can see. Browned by the sun and as tall as a child, each blade cuts into the air with a hundred brothers, swaying in dance from the wind._

_As much as I don't want to, I head back into the forest to find the river; one last bath before the long trek home. It doesn't take me too long, because I am getting more and more anxious as the time passes. Home! My bed, and my proud father, my timid brother, my lovely Sammie, and even my enabling mother – Maker bless them all, for I will see you all again! I swear it. I think about that moment where I doubted I would make it out of the swamp and I vow that will be the last time my resolve is shaken._

_Vows. I've had a lot of time to think about them. Specifically, the Oath of Starkhaven. I have broken it by tradition, but upheld it in spirit. Truthfully, I don't know how I will be received back home, but it doesn't much matter to me. I will not go crawling into the night to escape my fate. I will stand and defend myself just as I did with my uncle all those years ago. I did it once. I can do it again. And with the Maker's blessing, maybe they will accept me back and I will fight for the city and the people once again. For my family and my Sammie. For my prince and my honor._

_Breaking from the forest the second time into the waning sunshine of dusk, I am no less awestruck by the beauty of the world, and it takes me several moments to catch my breath. I know I talk about my time with the Pentaghasts often, but it was one of the most intense years of my life. Just like this time. I stare across vast plains, I see snow-capped mountains in the distance, I walk by lakes as still as mirrors reflecting the perfection of the world without us._

_I am no safer out here than I was in the swamp. I have new predators now. Great big birds that circle me from above, and at night they like to dive into my camp and steal my meat or sometimes attack me, thinking I'm carrion. Every so often, I find myself hunted by plains cats. There are no trees to climb, so I might fight them when they make their move, otherwise I let them be. There is one female that follows me for four whole days, keeping a good distance the whole time. I don't sleep much those four days, but she never attacks. I have a feeling that she has a litter of cubs somewhere, and I am fortunate enough not to stumble upon them. Herds are my biggest problem. When they don't stampede, I have to compete with other predators. I can hunt big game with my spear, but the jackals will chase me away almost immediately. I can't fight six wild dogs at once; they'll rip my throat out._

_Rabbits are hard to kill. They hop and scurry and turn this way and that, but I have to respect them for it. I am the dragon and they are me. Rats are even worse. They burrow into the ground and are just gone. Prairie dogs are easier. They stand up straight and stare at you like idiots, and you can walk right up to them and snap off their little heads. They aren't particularly tasty, though; their meat is greasy and stringy._

_I don't know how long I traverse the plains – they are as endless as the swamp is dense. I can feel it getting colder each night, and I know that the seasons are changing. Samantha's name day has passed, and I have no idea how old she is now. Let's see, she was twenty-two when I last saw her in 9:31 Dragon, Spring. That's right. We were supposed to be married in two months time. Spring! And now the season turns colder. How far into Autumn are we? How long have I been gone? Could it really be almost two seasons?_

_I am preoccupied by these thoughts when I nearly step into a bear trap – and thank the Maker the sun catches the metal, because otherwise I would have lost a leg! I crouch down to get a look at the thing: it's enormous, its jaws are set wide, and there is dried blood on the teeth, but no rust, which means that it hasn't been rained on. It has been roughly a tenday since the last rain, so this trap must have been reset recently. Only a person could have set this – perhaps someone who can help return me to civilization. Hopefully not an apostate._

_I stand back up, looking in all directions, but the sun is bright and I can't really tell what's on the horizon. I decide to wait until nightfall, and maybe with some luck, I'll catch some light in the distance._

_Sure enough, as dusk begins to creep across the plains, I see a faint twinkling of light not far away: firelight. It doesn't give me any indication of whether or not there are mages there, but I have to take my chances. It turns out to be a small farmstead. There's a house, a small granary and a barn. I hear horses – Maker! A horse! I feel nervous. I can't just walk up to the house, knock on the door, and greet them as the Marquess of Starkhaven. That would be ridiculous, but what else is there to do? I give myself a once-over, and while my skin is still sticky and green with oil, I don't look or sound like a frog. I decide that instead of surprising someone, I should call out._

_Hello! Is there anyone there?_

_I see some movement, and a small man emerges from the house. He's not a dwarf, but he is shockingly short, with bushy brown hair and spectacles so thick I can't see his eyes on the other side._

_He calls back, and there's a funny clacking when he talks, Chi è?_

_Great. Antivan. Okay, Beenie, dust yourself off and reply. I open my mouth and say, io… sono di Starkhaven. I think it means, I'm from Starkhaven._

_Starkhaven? He clacks back, bewildered. Che ci fai qui?_

_Umm, it's been a long time since my lessons, and I honestly have no idea what he just asked me. I have to answer him, and I ask him for help. Necessita aiuto._

_He waddles out further, and I raise my hands in the air to show him that I mean him no harm, and I think to myself that I am saved! But I think too soon, because he stops dead in his tracks, squinting and not seeing me clearly, because the next words sound frightened._

_Magia..._

_I wouldn't need lessons to know what that word means, and I raise my hands higher, calling out, Non apostata! Non apostata! I am not an apostate!_

_Apostata! He screams, scrambling backwards and then he runs away, and his short legs carry him far in no time at all._

_Perfect. First an apostate thinks I am a Templar, and now an old man thinks I'm an apostate. I just need to run into a Templar who thinks I am an old man for the cycle to be complete._

_Maybe I can talk to him, make him see that I am just a man, but instead of running into his house, he bolts for the barn. At first, I think he's trying to run, and I keep on shouting, Non apostata! There a gigantic crash followed by a ruckus and a billow of dirt and dust poofs out from one of the barn windows. I don't move, my mind is racing – what can I say, what can I do? – but none of it matters as he flies from the barn on a mule holding a javelin._

_I'm not kidding. A javelin. Maybe the hilarity of the image would be best experienced, but he's dirty, scraggly, wearing coveralls that are rolled up thick around his ankles, his hair likely made brown from dirt, and he couldn't be taller than five feet. I'm taller than he is as he sits atop a mule, and he's carrying a weapon that is longer and finer than everything in this field._

_He kicks his spurs into the poor poor mule's gut and is upon me faster than I am ready. My reflexes are still good from my time in the swamp, maybe a little too jumpy, but I wasn't expecting his gelding to move that fast, and I jump out of the way, twisting my body to avoid the tip of his weapon._

_The scene that follows would be hilarious if not for my pitiable situation – I need this man to help me, but he is screaming out things in Antivan that I can't understand. I scramble this way and that as he makes pass after pass, and I am holding my hands in the air screaming the same thing over and over, Non apostata! But he just ignores me, turning his little mule back around to ride at me again. Eventually, both he and the mule grow tired, and he gasps for breath, glaring at me._

_I am exhausted from this endeavor as well, and I place an open hand on my chest and say, Mi chiamo Corbinian Vael. Vael. Starkhaven._ Vael _. I tap my chest again and again and emphasize my name hoping that he recognizes it._

_Maghi mentire, he clacks, and beneath his bushy beard, I can see that his teeth are made of wood._

_No lie, I say. Non mentire. I don't know how to fix the grammar, but whatever. I say again, Vael. Necessita… uh… andare Starkhaven. Please. Per favore. Non mentire. Non apostata._

_Andraste soften his heart and make him believe me._

_His expression changes and he seems too tired to continue to fight me, maybe because he knows that I could disarm him, but I don't want to hurt him. I just need his help. Maybe a horse, maybe an escort. Maybe just point me in the right direction._

_He finally points that javelin at me and says, Restate._

_I don't really know that word, but he repeats it and starts to move away slowly, still pointing his weapon at me, and only when I take a step forward and he stops, repeating the word more forcefully do I understand. He wants me to stay here._

_Fine. Whatever. I'll sit here. I'm still holding my hands up as he walks away, looking over his shoulder to make sure I don't move, and eventually, I see the firelight in his tiny house die away, which plunges the area into a deep darkness. The moon is hidden behind clouds, and there is a chill in the air. I make a fire and cook a rodent, and wait. I'll wait for a week if he wants me too._

_I sit out here for three days as he goes about work on his farm. He looks out at me every so often, shakes his head, and goes back to work. He doesn't come out to talk to me. I try to talk to him, though; I call out during the day when I see him but my Antivan stinks, and he won't engage me._

_On the fourth day, a group of riders approach the farmstead. He must have sent some kind of messenger, perhaps a pigeon or something, because there are three of them with four horses – four! Maker! I'm saved! I hop to my feet and he points to me in the field and they approach without delay._

_I hold up a hand, Hello! Ciao!_

_When they come into range, I see that there are two men and one woman who rides in the front. They look fairly well-fed, though dirty, but they are all smiles. They are wearing chainmail underneath long belted tunics. Their tabards are a reddish orange, and there's a strange symbol on their chests that looks like an eagle with its head turned to one side and its wings outstretched. The female dismounts with a warriors gait, and the swords on her hips along with the way she walks tells me that she can handle herself. She raises a hand back._

_Hello, she says genially, clearly the leader. You look strong._

_I am the Marquess Corbinian V—_

_I am silenced by her fist tightly wrapped around the hilt of her sword, striking me square across my jaw, not enough to cause permanent damage, but it rings my skull like a bell. Stars, twinkling lights, nausea and I am falling but I don't remember hitting the ground._


	27. 9:33 Dragon, Autumn

**9:33 Dragon, Autumn**

_Your Royal Highness, Prince Goran Vael,_

_Inside the box, I believe you will find something of great interest. Please allow me to explain how this particular item came into my possession._

_This piece of armor came to me from the city guard. Apparently, they had saved it from being melted down by a local smithy after having recognized the crest. An investigation revealed that the person who sold it to the smithy was a man who calls himself Archim Falk, an Anders of some ill repute who had stolen it from a merchant caravan headed to Starkhaven. The merchant claims to have paid a fair price for it, and was compensated as he was able to prove that it had been paid for. He bought it from a little girl who sold it to feed herself and her four orphaned brothers who all live in the Green Dales to the north. The area has plagued us for some time, as many children, some Antivan but mostly Fereldan refugees, call the plains their home and roam like wild beasts, attacking caravans in packs like wolves._

_My men were able to track the little girl down, though it took quite a bit of time to do so. She claims she found it in the Minanter – specifically, a place the wild children call The Hub, as they often to meet up with other packs to organize attacks on passing merchant caravans. This is how we found her, and we had to offer a substantial reward to obtain this information from her._

_I offer this information to you freely and in good faith with the hope that our efforts will not be forgotten in the future, should we ever require such friendship._

_May the Maker bless you with healthy children to continue the Vael line,_

_The Margrave of Ansburg, Lord Frederick Eberstark_

Ansburg was Starkhaven's sister city to the east. The two cities were not especially close, historically or otherwise, but perhaps their leader, Margrave Frederick Eberstark sought to change that. The Margrave was a military title, a governor of sorts that claimed protective responsibility for territory beyond the limits of the city.

"So, I guess I'll hire the opera for tonight," Goran said.

He’d been talking while Samantha had been thinking about that letter, and she’d missed most of what he said. She looked up guiltily. The Margrave of Ansburg, along with his wife and daughter were due on their first official visit to Starkhaven in just a few hours’ time. After receiving their letter later last autumn, Goran had invited them to visit, but the weather hadn't been fine for traveling until recently.

"I mean, I don't know what the Eberstarks like,” he went on. “What do you suppose they do in Ansburg? Should I show them some fine entertainment or is that too boastful? I suppose I could get a servant to find out."

 

Goran was standing in front of a tall mirror, trying – and failing – to fasten the buttons of his vest.

"If I visited another city, I would want to experience their culture." Samantha suggested. "And besides, who doesn't love the opera?"

At that moment, an elven servant stiffly entered the room holding a sterling silver tray. Upon the tray lay a carefully folded bit of parchment: it was a letter from Kirkwall. Goran snatched it from the tray, but couldn't hide his disappointment when he handed it over to Samantha. It was from Flora.

Samantha hesitated, but Goran, perhaps sensing her discomfort at reading the letter in his presence, said, "You can open it here... if you want."

That was all the permission she needed; she hadn't heard from her friend since the Qunari lay siege to Kirkwall. She tore into the note.

_Sammie, my greatest friend,_

_I received your letter – finally letters are getting through again – and I deeply appreciate your concern, but we didn't even see any Qunari. We heard the fires and the screams and we thought something terrible was going on, but if I hadn't gone outside, we wouldn't have even known the Qunari were attacking. I couldn't just sit around, so I found some leathers and a bow and I went into the streets to see what I could do._

_While I was out in the street, and the fires were raging around me, our neighbors, the De Launcets, showed up with their idiot son, Emille. We ran into a few looters who were trying to break into a different neighbor's estate, but we fought them and we won! I am proud to say that I put arrows through two looters’ hearts! As morbid as that might sound, it was both thrilling and frightening. The biggest surprise of the night was when Emille turned out to be a mage! He set off some weak firecracker of a spell at the looters, who looked more scared of the magic than him. Anyway, after the looters were dead, he freaked out that his parents and I saw him perform magic and ran off. I heard he was found later in a local tavern. Moron._

_Oh, Sammie! If I could but describe to you how I feel! The entire experience was exhilarating! I know you don't approve, but for the first time in my life, I know exactly what I want. I know you think I'm a "lady", but I would die of boredom if I had to have that life. Since that night, I've hired a master and begun training archery in earnest. I can just imagine your shock, but know that I have never been happier! This is what I was meant to do! I can't tell you how freeing it is to finally find my passion!_

_Kirkwall has become a little crazy since. The nobles in the town are so unusual! They wouldn't recognize tragedy if it blew up right in front of them, because the way some are reacting, you would think they had all suffered tremendously. The truth is that a handful got a little dirty and the one man who died was hated by everyone. Don't mistake me, the death of the Viscount is a tragedy, but I think the single ladies of Kirkwall are more distraught over the loss of Kirkwall's most eligible bachelor – the Viscount's son, Saemus._

_Next month is the Annual Masked Ball to celebrate how great it is to be Orlesian – ugh! Brett won't be attending as he is making plans to travel to Nevarra City, which is where his wife ran off to. He's convinced he can win her back, and more power to him, I say. Ruxton isn't going either. In fact, he's leaving Kirkwall. He's decided to go to his lordship in Ansburg – it's a small town, and he can bury himself in his work there. He hasn't been himself for so long. I think it will be good for him._

_I have been asked by four different boys so far, but I'm not going. Between the squeaky songstresses, the sloppy musicians, the clumsy boys, and the vapid conversations, I'm so bored with parties. The only draw for me was time with my friends, and all my friends are elsewhere. Some are with the Maker. I've decided that it's time for me to stop playing around and grow up._

_I am going to focus on my archery and one day, I will make a name for myself. Only then will I prove to everyone that my family still has honor._

_I know you understand, Sammie._

_Love, Flora_

Samantha felt relieved that her friend was all right – she sounded better than all right, actually – but inwardly she lamented that Flora was drifting away. Samantha couldn't picture Flora as a mercenary... if that was the life she was aiming for. Why would anyone want to kill people for a living?

Goran turned back around, squinting at the buttons in the mirror. "Good news?"

Yes. No. Samantha didn't know, so she said, "Of a sort. Flora is doing better. Getting her life in order."

He visibly brightened. "That's great news!"

"Yes, it is…" She didn't want to tell him about Flora's new source of affection – her bow.

"I was thinking that I might visit her – I mean, visit Knight Commander Meredith." Goran chuckled nervously, and then he started rambling. "I need to meet her, you know. I haven't made many princely trips. My uncle used to take trips. Several times a year, if I recall. I hear there's a masked ball held in the late summer every year. Might be worth going. Make an appearance."

Samantha tried to hide her grimace. "Are you sure? Kirkwall sounds so dangerous these days…"

He shrugged. "I'll have guards."

"Why not wait until next spring? When the city calms from the Qunari attack?" She stepped in front of him, sighing at his inability to button his vest. "Here, let me do that."

"Now is the perfect time, really." He waved his hands in the air to suggest that it was common knowledge. "After such an attack, the city guard always shows a more prominent presence. It's to prevent looting. Well, any _more_ looting."

Sometimes, Goran spoke so casually about catastrophe that she didn't recognize him. She glanced up, giving him a look of unease that he mistook as concern.

"You don't want to be alone." He spoke his thoughts so simply, as though they were truths to be reconciled instead of guessed at. "You could come with me."

"No," she said quickly, but the idea had already rooted itself in her head like a weed. Could she go to Kirkwall? She could see Flora. She could see Sebastian. It would be the first time she had ever left Starkhaven. She moved her hands down to the next set of buttons, trying to act nonchalant. "What's the rush?"

"What's the problem?" He seemed confused.

"Why do you _really_ want to go, Goran?" she asked, though she knew why.

And he knew why she was asking. "What if I told you it was to deliver a gift?"

She raised an eyebrow suspiciously. "To whom?"

"Who do you think, Sammie?" As he stared at her, recognition of her true concern relaxed his features. He let a long pause pass between them, blinking through his thoughts until he finally said, "What are you not telling me?"

Her hands fell away from his now-buttoned vest. "I'm only trying to protect you."

"From who? Flora?" He laughed, but her sad expression caused his smile to fall. "Oh. Oh, I see."

Samantha opened her mouth only to close it again, and the silence stretched between them so thin, it felt like something was about to snap. But Goran just said, "You're suggesting that it would be a waste of a trip."

"Goran—" She reached out to him, but he jerked away.

"I am an idiot!"

Samantha startled. "You're not—"

He sighed loudly as he moved out of the room, mumbling, "All these years..."

His voice disappeared into the darkness of the windowless hallway and Samantha padded behind him on her bare feet, leaving her shoes back in his room. As she passed by the servants, they all gave her incredulous looks as though she were running through the hallways naked.

"Goran, wait!"

"I should thank you," he called back, his long strides advancing him at a faster pace than she could keep up with.

"Where are you going?" She had to run to catch up, passing by Keis, who was leaning against the hall not far from the terrace. The warrior lifted her eyebrows in amusement as Samantha hurriedby.

"Away from where I've been," he replied.

His voice came from an adjacent hallway and she abruptly halted in her tracks, changing her direction to follow him. He was heading to the room where he kept all those paintings of Flora, and she arrived in time to see the white linens sailing through the air like parachutes. Goran's arms swung around as he went from painting to painting, pinching the large sheets between his fingers and, as the fabric zipped away from the canvas, long undisturbed dust kicked up into the room.

"What are you doing?" She watched him move so swiftly and gracefully that she wondered if he was just a fumbling mess in his youth because he was around Flora. She had a sudden memory of following him down the hallway of this palace, Lady Pentaghast at his side as they walked so elegantly to the library where his Aunt forced him to read poetry.

"What did she say in the letter, Sammie?" He lifted a portrait from its display, tossing it across the room casually as though it weighed nothing. It landed in the corner with a _thunk_.

"She…" Samantha didn't want to tell him this, but everyone had been right; she was a terrible liar. Reluctantly, she said, "She is devoting herself to archery. She doesn't want the life of nobility."

"Of course," he muttered softly before tossing another portrait haphazardly; it landed somewhere behind him. "She writes to you, who is under my care. She fixes her estate and her holdings with the aid of my secretaries. She finds her health with my nurses. But does she write to _me_ aside from a short and polite thank-you letter? Does she bother to know the person who would make such an effort for her?"

Samantha stayed in the doorway, unsure of what to say. Goran seemed to be mostly talking to himself anyway.

He shook his head, surveying the room he was destroying. "Beenie told me long ago to forget her, but I didn't listen. You tried to tell me, too. About giving up on her after what her mother did, but I didn't listen then, either!" He turned about, bumping into an empty easel which fell over into another, knocking away a rather lovely portrait of Flora on the night Corbinian had proposed marriage. Flora's dress had been silken obsidian.

_Goran is a fool. A dim-witted, clumsy, fat fool. I swear to Andraste, sitting beside the Maker himself, I am not interested in Goran, and I never will be. Ever._

Samantha stared at the painting, and she could see plainly why Goran had been so taken with her. Why so many men had. She was stunningly beautiful. But she was also cold. A tiny voice in the back of Samantha's mind whispered, _Just like her mother_. She shook the disturbing thought away.

Goran was still babbling. "My aunt thought I was crazy for being so keen on a girl who showed me so little interest." He let out a small growl. " _But I didn't listen_."

He moved about the room, tossing one painting after another into the corner until the stack was nearly halfway up the wall. Samantha watched her friend's face sail through the air repeatedly. Flora smiling, laughing, dancing, in the sun, the gardens, shades of turquoise and lavender, with long, rich, excited strokes mixed with lighter, delicate swaths of melancholy. Her sultry eyes dared them all to forget her, their beauty only ruined by the tears in the stretched canvas over the splintered wood beneath. The beauty of them perfectly fit Goran, who trashed the room gracefully. The way he moved, the long muscles in his arms flexing beneath his dressy tunic, chest heaving in and out; he was a wild animal, elegantly pacing in irritation.

She boldly took a step into the room. "Goran—"

"Excuse me, Your Highness?"

A tepid voice floated in from the hallway and Samantha whirled around to see one of Goran's secretaries. Samantha recognized him: his name was Myron. He was a round man with a shock of black hair on his head and a jagged line of whiskers down his jaw. With a roll of parchment in one hand and a quill in the other, his gaze darted reproachfully around the messy room.

The man bowed, remembering his manners even if she and Goran did not. "My lady, forgive the, ah, intrusion…. Guests have arrived at the palace, Your Highness."

"The Eberstarks," Goran huffed.

Myron the secretary pressed his puffy lips together. "I'm so sorry, Your Highness, but no. There are three men, dirty and bruised. They bear your seal and are demanding to see you."

With wide eyes, Goran came to an abrupt halt, the paintings falling from his fingers, forgotten. "Take me to them at once!"

Myron's countenance changed at Goran's order and he sprung to life, leading the prince and Samantha back through the main hallway and into an adjacent room. Once Goran was in their presence, the three guests seemed elated in relief.

"My prince!" One of them called, holding up the official seal of the prince of the Starkhaven. "We return!"

The men seemed exhausted, and not just their bodies but their supplies as well. Their swords and shields were dirty, their hollowed packs were ripped at the seams, and their brown hair was streaked with gold, bleached from the sun. Their leathers, which looked like they used to be quite fine, were softened by the earth and set upon their shoulders in worn tatters. Each had a short beard as though shorn with a blade rather than a shaving knife, and their skin was deep bronze, clearly from overexposure to the elements. Only one man seemed less battered than the other two, and though he wore leathers, he was in the middle of handing a bladed staff to a pair of wary royal guards. Samantha recognized him as a mage.

"Bring these men to the wash rooms immediately," Goran said to one of the two guards, and the pair glanced at each other for a moment before the guard who received the order complied, leading the three men down the hall. Goran didn't appear to care if he gave orders to the correct people. Continuing in this fashion, he turned to a nearby servant boy who was watering plants and said, "Tell the kitchens to prepare breakfast at once, settings for five. I'll have the men cleaned and supped inside an hour."

The moment Goran finished speaking, the boy hopped onto his heels and ran off.

Goran turned about in circles. "Where is Colin? Maker… where is that boy?" Colin was his personal squire.

"You let him have this morning off, Your Highness."

Both Samantha and Goran startled at the familiar voice, turning to see Keis leaning inside the doorway. She had this way of being everywhere that was most unsettling.

"Oh, right." Goran looked around dumbly. "Is there anyone else around, then?"

Keis sighed, limply suggesting, "You could always ring the bell, my prince."

"Oh right! The bell!" He snapped his fingers in understanding and moved into the main hallway, swiftly traveling down the corridor to the front sitting room where he found a long cord of velvet rope dangling from somewhere above. When he pulled on it,a loud bell tinkled somewhere, and, almost immediately, four different servants appeared from the shadows. It was like they lived just out of sight, like they had been trained to be that way. "Right. You—" Goran pointed at a girl. "Find more servants, and make up three of the guest rooms, those close to my wing. And you—" He pointed to another girl. "Fetch paper, quill, and ink. Can you write?" The girl shook her head. "Find someone who can write. Bring everything to the brunch room. I want every word the men say written down. And you—" He pointed to the lone boy. "Have you ever performed as squire?" The boy shook his head. "Then find three who can. They will squire for the men while they live in the palace. And you—" He pointed to the final girl. "Fetch clothing for the men. Find a store if you must. Tell no one about any of this. Go now!"

The four scurried off like freshly discovered mice from under a rock.

"Come, Sammie." He pivoted, heading back into the hallway. "We must break our fast with these men this morning."

"What about the Eberstarks?" She followed in breathless anticipation, more excited than she had been in a long while. These men were one of Goran's groups, his Ghost Chasers.

Rolling up the sleeves of his crisp white shirt, he sauntered down the hallway, passing by the portraits of the long-dead Vaels. "They can join us when they arrive."

He walked with purpose, more sure of himself than Samantha had ever seen him, and she fell in step with him, following with a big smile.

Goran paused, seemingly in every hallway, giving instructions to various servants as he passed: mealtimes, weapons, permissions, access to certain parts of the royal palace, and always discretion. Samantha waited with him anxiously, but at the third stop she realized that she was barefoot. She glanced over at Keis and pointed to her feet.

"Why didn’t you tell me?" Samantha whispered.

Keis shrugged. "That's not my job."

Groaning to herself, Samantha grabbed one of the passing servants and asked the girl to fetch her shoes from the prince's royal closet. The girl seemed flustered at the request, and Samantha would have felt embarrassed at the impropriety if not for this day. No, she was much too distracted, for on this day, she was about to hear news of Corbinian!

Once they finally made it into the brunch room, the same room that Samantha had brunched with Goran's family and her parents those many years ago, the servants were just setting out the trays of fruits and sweetmeats. The Maker's sun had shined brightly upon them on that day, and lately Samantha didn't see His light anywhere. Even on this morning, His sun was behind clouds but His light managed to shine through the sheer curtains, giving the room a soft, almost blessed glow.

They had planned an elaborate meal to greet the foreign dignitaries, but now they were giving it to the three men. Samantha and Goran had spent weeks reading up on the latest delicacies from all over the Marches, wanting greatly to impress the Margrave with the food, and the chefs had prepared the meal to exact specifications. Nearly every kind of food was sitting upon the table. She spied the small bite-sized apple tarts dusted with cinnamon, thick and bloody steaks covered in creamy gravy, Starkhaven's famous Fish Pie made in small single-serving tart dishes, an array of smoked fish including trout, salmon, mackerel, and halibut decoratively arranged to look like flowers, fruits of every color evenly sliced and fanned out across trays decorated with silver and linen, smoked and roasted cold meats, and of course the pastries. Cream puffs with rosemary-spiked filling, butterscotch sticky buns, savory pancakes with pancetta and apple, strawberry puffs with chocolate glaze, and the blessed orange juice, freshly squeezed into a crystal pitcher. If Keis wanted some, she certainly didn't let on, but Samantha poured her a tall glass anyway. Keis didn't give a word of thanks, but whenever she took a sip, she closed her eyes.

When the three men joined them, Goran stood up formally to greet them, and the trio stared wide-eyed at the table filled with food. Samantha wasn't sure if they would be able to keep their manners, because it must have been a while since they had eaten a meal as rich as this. Even so, the men showed her their courtesies, possibly because a lady sat with them.

A bustle of servants came and went from the room, setting it for service and Samantha felt great relief once her shoes arrived. The last to shuffle in was a teen girl, somewhat gangly, carrying fresh sheets of parchment, two bottles of ink, and four quills. She quietly set herself up at an adjacent smaller table – but couldn't hide her envy at their breakfast.

"Maker in the heavens…," the tallest of three men breathed, clearly satisfied, sitting back with his hands upon his swollen belly. "That was the best breakfast that I've ever had."

"As my guest in the palace, you'll have many more," Goran promised. "Plus, you will each have the boon of your choice. A knighthood, a title… you will have plenty of time to consider it. But if you feel ready, I'd like to hear what you found. With the manner of your return, I assume you have news for me."

"We do," the tallest one said; his name was Brandt, and he had a lowborn Marcher accent. "We tracked your brother through the swamps. Hell, that place is. Murder at every turn. But the Marquess is a clever one for he did survive it."

"He did…?" Goran leaned forward. It wasn't so much a question as a need for affirmation.

Samantha leaned in as well, unable to contain herself; she wanted to hear every word.

"Yes, Your Highness," Brandt confirmed with a proud smile. "We found several traces. Tracks in the mud. Marks on trees. Paths through heavily wooded areas. Magic helped. We came upon a woman."

"Right nut, that one," the second man said; his name was Rylan and he also spoke with a lowborn Marcher accent. "She thought we were all Templars! We wanted to question her, to see if she had seen His Excellency, your brother. But Marke—" He gestured to the mage. "—had to subdue her. Finally, she told us that she had chased off a Templar. One wearing golden armor."

"Golden armor," Goran echoed. "Some Templars wear golden plate similar to my brother's."

"Yes, but she was very specific about this one," Brandt said. "She described the plate pieces quite well, and said they were worn by a boy with green skin."

"Green skin?" Samantha couldn't help herself, and she felt a little embarrassed at her outburst when they all turned to her.

"Yes, my lady," Brandt said. "She said he was green. Rylan had her right, she was a bit off."

"Was?" Goran asked.

"Yes, well," Brandt hesitated. "She wouldn’t stop throwing fireballs at us."

Goran's eyes widened. "She was an apostate?"

"I'm sorry, Your Highness," Brandt said earnestly. "I know you wanted us to leave people unspoiled, but once we let her go, she attacked us. She took out Tomas and Herbert before we got her down. She was a powerful mage."

"It's all right," Goran said, though clearly still disturbed. "Go on."

Rylan took over. "Well, we think the Marquess got a bit lost after that. His trail was hard to find. We'd pick it up here and there, but we had a devil of a time tracking him down. Heard the strangest things too in that swamp. Whispers in the treetops. The night would fall when it shouldn't have. The stories are true of that place, my lord. 'Tis haunted."

Samantha glanced at Keis who was watching the mage, Marke, closely.

"Took a month to get out," Brandt added. "And we had magical trinkets to guide our way. I can't believe your brother made it out on his own. A real skilled lad, he is."

The way the men spoke of the swamp, their eyes and voices filled with dread, Samantha felt afraid. Corbinian was skilled indeed, full of ingenuity and knowledge of survival skills – what horrors had he endured in those swamps? She tried to shake the thought away, reminding herself that he was alive! She felt the urge to run down the hallway to Goran's private study, to lift the glass from the display, and touch the armor plate that had once been attached to his arm. His tanned arm which held a jagged river of blood and life, just like the Minanter as it splintered through the swamps.

Goran prodded the man to continue, as focused as Samantha had ever seen him, even when painting. "Where did he exit the swamp?"

Brandt answered him. "To the north, my prince. In the Green Dales. His trail was easier to follow there. He was headed straight east. Toward the Amaranthine. Probably aiming to run into a landmark on the way."

This seemed to fit the story that the Margrave of Ansburg had come up with.

"We followed his trail for more than a month – the Green Dales is large." Brandt paused to let out a small belch and seemed exceedingly embarrassed at its escape. Goran waved his hand, impatient for the man to continue and not caring about his manners in the slightest.

Rylan laughed quietly, finishing the story. "Eventually, we found a hermit—a farmer. Short little man. He was Antivan and didn't understand us, but we was lucky we had Marke."

The third man and the mage, Marke, finally spoke up, and he had an accent unlike any other, clearly Fereldan. "I speak five languages, Your Highness. I spoke to the idiot of a man who claimed an apostate boy stumbled onto his property and attacked him. We showed him the drawing of your brother that you made for us, and this _apostate boy_ matched your brother's depiction entirely, though the little man said he had more hair on his face. But it was your brother."

_Then if His plan should ever separate me from you, Sammie, I will move the stars from the sky, I will fight demons and mages and dragons and Qunari, I will cross the Fade if I have to until I am returned to you._

Samantha couldn't breathe.

"Well…?" Goran asked impatiently. "Why isn't he with you, then?"

Marke sighed, irritated at the memory. He explained, "The _idiot_ Antivan said your brother burned his crops and terrorized his land for more than a tenday. He said he had to barricade himself inside his house and send for reinforcements." The mage's irritation reached new heights when he said, "He was lying, of course. That much was easy to tell even without magic. But his _reinforcements_ did come, and they took your brother away. That's when the trail grew cold."

Goran brought a fist down on the table hard enough to clink the glasses. " _Who_ took my brother away?"

Marke hesitated before he said, "Antivan slavers, Your Highness. The little man sold your brother to slavers."


	28. 9:34 Dragon, Spring

**9:34 Dragon, Spring**

"I don't care what you say." Samantha shrugged on her long coat; an unseasonable spring chill had snaked through the Free Marches.

Goran was fidgeting in the hallway of the royal palace, repeating the same phrase that had become his mantra for the last month. "This is a bad idea. A bad idea."

"I should have done this long ago." She carefully fastened the large buttons on her coat.

Keis looked bored, leaning against the archway that led into the front room. "You aren't going to talk her out of it, Your Highness."

Goran took a step forward, and then backward, fumbling with his hands. "What if something happens?"

Samantha pulled on a pair of Orlesian silk gloves, buttoning each tiny silver button at the wrist. "It won't."

"But how do you know?"

"’Cause I'll be holding a sword to his throat." Keis spoke calmly, not even looking at them.

"Oh…" Goran stopped fidgeting. "Well, that might not be wise. I mean, you don't want to make the man nervous."

Keis shrugged. "At your will."

She made everyone nervous sometimes.

Samantha pulled at the front doors but found them easier to open once Keis was helping her, and as Goran followed the pair of women out into the brisk morning—one made of lace and the other made of rock—he snapped his fingers at his squire to have his coat brought to the palace gates.

That previous summer when they learned Corbinian had survived the night of Mage Rebellion, and he had survived the swamps to the north, Samantha had fainted away, partly from shock and partly from elation. When she had woken up from fainting, she had found herself lying in bed in her official room; Goran was slumped in a nearby chair, his head firmly planted in his hands, snoozing peacefully, apparently having fallen asleep as he waited for her to wake up. He’d nearly lost it when she had passed out, she later learned. Already a mess from the confirmation of his belief that his brother might be alive, the shock of seeing Samantha collapse had frayed his last nerve. His personal squire, a boy named Colin, had arranged for a sleeping tonic which he’d refused to take until Samantha woke up. The tonic turned out to be unnecessary.

While she had watched Goran sleep, her thoughts were swallowed up with his brother. Possibly alive and alone out there somewhere – just like Goran had always said. The Minanter flowed east towards the Amaranthine Ocean, and so if the little girl from Ansburg had found it in the river, it must have flowed from Starkhaven or somewhere nearby. Samantha hoped it wasn't the swamps. The swamps were filled with creatures that weren't even catalogued, as adventurers who went in rarely came out. Perhaps he was in the Free Marches somewhere, imprisoned by the Flint Company and forgotten in their deaths. Maybe his memory was affected or he was fighting his way out of somewhere brutal and dark… such thoughts were horrible but preferable to imagining him dead.

It had been two years since she had seen him. Her memory stirred with that morning she had awoken in the chantry; fuzzy-headed, with her throat on fire, her bruised legs, that horrendous scratch on her arm, and that incredible thirst.

The mages had healed her, placing their bare hands on her skin in places only Corbinian had touched and, at the time, it felt like a violation. They had offered to take her pain away, to quench that thirst and satiate her hunger, to help her sleep and help her wake, to make the recovery easier, they said, but she had refused all of it. Once she fully regained consciousness, she had screamed at them to stay away, fearful of any magical touch, but on the morning she woke after reading the Margrave's letter, she also recalled how the mages had offered to help her remember.

Her lack of memory of that night hadn't changed. There was no revelatory dream or nightmare, and no inanimate object had stirred a flashback. There was just nothing. Like she had been put to sleep for four days.

With the news that Corbinian did not die on that night, she felt a surge of courage to learn what happened after she swung open the large door to her estate to find him standing on the stoop with that… thing. That purple demon with those hideous eyes that giggled flirtatiously … Samantha could have described them down to the smallest detail if she had wanted, but she kept them to herself – they were _her_ nightmare. They didn't belong to anyone else.

The mages insisted that those memories could be recovered, but she had been too frightened of magic. Now she felt afraid of remembering a version of events that she didn't want to believe.

Ser Traven was now a Knight Captain in the Templar Order, and he had walked calmly beside First Enchanter Raddick as they approached the gates. Raddick was tall with dark skin, likely from Rivain, to judge by his looks. His wiry black hair was kept very short, and tiny reading glasses stood guard on his stern face. His dark eyes appraised Samantha in the same way they had those many months ago when she first requested his assistance. She had hated waiting, but he insisted on time to prepare the spell and make sure the components were in order. Plus, he needed another mage with a special ability and, since mages were scarce in Starkhaven, he’d had to send for one.

The First Enchanter of Kirkwall, Orsino, had responded to Raddick's request and sent a mage, though when she arrived, she was not what was expected. For one, she was an elf; a tiny little thing compared to Raddick. And, for another, she looked no older than thirteen. Samantha’s father had never deemed the information necessary, and thus she hadn't read much about elves before, though there were volumes written by the famed scholar Brother Genitivi. This elf's copper hair was kept in a tight bun behind ears that flew backwards off her head like they had been caught in a windstorm. She had a pointy chin with wide-set cheekbones that flared below a pair of crystal-clear blue eyes. All elves were lithe, but Samantha hadn't known many of themand they all looked so similar. Like sticks with eyes.

The trio met Samantha, Goran, and Keis at the palace gates and as they walked to one of the sitting rooms, Goran seemed either bothered by or enamored of the elf – Samantha couldn't tell which.

Once inside, he shook his head at Raddick. "Absolutely not."

Samantha glared. "You can't forbid me, Goran."

"I'm supposed to entrust your safety to an elf?" He scoffed. " _An elf_?"

"You may call me Amethyne." She was trying to sound polite, but the words came through clenched teeth.

"I don't care what your name is!" Goran refused to look at her now.

The elven girl sighed softly, but Raddick almost growled. "Is there a problem, Your Most Worthy Highness?"

The way he enunciated every word in the title turned Goran pink, and the Prince of Starkhaven took a moment to remember that he was prince. "First Enchanter, we know nothing of this—girl."

Raddick raised a brow in irritation but Amethyne muttered something before she took a breath and spoke. "I was born in Highever to a servant. Surely you are familiar with those."

"Amethyne," Traven warned. "You are speaking to the Prince of Starkhaven."

"My apologies, _Your Highness_." She spoke the words as though they tasted foul. "My mother sent me to the Denerim alienage when I was a girl to live with her friends, because she didn't want the Teyrn, whose house she cleaned, to send her daughter to the Circle once they found out that she was a mage." She sounded rather bitter about that.

"You're city-borne then?" Samantha asked carefully, staring at her but trying not to be blatant about it.

"Yes. I grew up in a large estate. Not as nice as this one, though," she said naively, looking across the large circular rug to the velvet tapestries. It was as though she didn't fully comprehend the riches of Starkhaven royalty. She looked back to Samantha and continued. "I lived in Denerim for a while. Not that long, though. When the darkspawn sacked the city during the Blight, there was no one protecting the alienage, and so we fled. And yes, a group of us ended up with the Dalish for a time."

"And you didn't stay with them?" Samantha didn't understand; her family had lost their fair share of elven servants to the Dalish.

"Of course not! I hated it." Her accent was indeed highborn Fereldan. "I mean, I was born in a mansion, sent to an alienage to live in the dirt, and then the Dalish wanted me to _like_ living in the dirt."

The way she spoke that last sentence, Goran and Samantha understood implicitly, but Keis lifted her eyes to the ceiling in annoyance.

Traven finished for her. "The Templars found her living in the Kirkwall alienage."

From the looks on Amethyne's and Raddick's faces, nothing further needed to be explained.

"I thought elves prefer the Dalish…" Samantha didn't know much about elven history, but that much was common knowledge.

"Well, I didn't."

"You prefer the Circle, then?" Samantha asked naively.

The elf rolled her eyes. "Oh, yes, I love it. It's just like my home in Highever, except the guards point their spears at me instead of outsiders."

Traven growled her name in another warning while Goran scowled at Raddick. Neither he nor Samantha had ever encountered an elf who dared speak to them as this girl did.

But Raddick responded in measured tones. "I have tested her myself. She is particularly suited to watch over Lady Samantha while I help her remember."

Goran's hands flew outward. "Suited—?"

" _If_ there is a problem." Raddick's voice was unfathomably deep. "Then I have asked our own Knight Commander Rayce and Kirkwall's Knight Commander Meredith and First Enchanter Orsino to accommodate me for no reason. That's an awfully terrible group of people to irritate in a single day."

Traven shifted his weight uncomfortably and Amethyne shuddered.

Samantha didn't know Meredith, but the Knight Commander of Kirkwall had a reputation for being hard as nails and Kirkwall's Templar Order had a reputation for harsh punishments. The Knight Commander of Starkhaven, Ser Rayce Taraamäe, was an extremely ambitious man, but historically had always tried to treat mages fairly, or so everyone said. Orsino, also an elf, was known throughout the Free Marches as an emotional sort, a loose cannon. No one wanted the ire of any one of them, let alone all three.

Goran paused, considering what to say next, but he was running out of arguments and he still refused to look at the elf. "She's so young, though."

Amethyne never took her eyes from him and, no matter how big and beautiful they were, they were filled with frustration.

"She is what I need." Raddick commanded.

"And what is that?"

"A spirit healer."

Goran had no answer for that. None of them did, because none of them knew just what a _spirit healer_ was.

Raddick set his jaw as he began again. "A spirit healer will ensure that Lady Samantha's mind remains uninjured for the spell's duration. It can be an intense experience, and we wouldn't want her to—" He glanced at Keis, who was giving him the evil eye. "—fall into a coma."

"Maker's breath!" Goran was not persuaded, and in fact, talking about the negative side effects of the experience was the absolute wrong thing to do.

"Your Highness, you misunderstand me." Raddick had impeccable manners. "Lady Samantha will be watched over and protected at every moment. The only way she could be assaulted is if I am assaulted, and that's why Amethyne is needed."

Goran's eyes went wide. "And I'm supposed to entrust Samantha's life to the elf?"

The girl huffed in obvious annoyance and Traven's frown turned into a glare.

Goran turned to Samantha. "Are you sure this is what you want?"

Samantha glanced at the girl. All the healers she had known were friendly, compassionate people. This girl was anything but. But Samantha knew that she needed to do this, despite Goran's reservations.

"The First Enchanter will be here,” she said. “She's not going to injure me."

"Of course I won't," Amethyne said bluntly. "I want to stay here in Starkhaven. Besides, if you die, who do you think will get the blame out of everyone in this room? I don't particularly want to be Tranquil."

Her argument was a simple one. While most of them felt uncomfortable with the blatant injustice it implied, they all knew it was absolutely true. But Traven had finally had enough.

"I realize that this is not your city, Amethyne." The Templar towered above her. "But you will adhere to our customs. I've told you this before: in the presence of the Prince of Starkhaven, you do not speak unless spoken to. I will not warn you again."

Her shoulders sunk. "I'm sorry."

"You're sorry, _what_?"

"I'm sorry, _Your Highness._ " She resumed trying to be polite.

Goran was squinting at Raddick with his lips pursed as though deep in thought and unaware of all other conversation. He asked the First Enchanter: "What does she mean, _stay in Starkhaven_?"

Raddick opened his mouth to answer, but Traven cut him off. "This is not the time—"

"And when is the time?" Raddick's unfathomably deep voice made every word sound important.

"May I speak now?" Amethyne was glowering at everyone who all turned to Goran for approval. A moment passed before he realized that he had to give it, and he fumbled awkwardly with his hands in her direction.

The elf seemed emboldened by his permission, and Samantha wondered about how rare these kinds of mages were, these spirit healers, because this elf was acting from a position of power.

"I wish to remain here," she explained. "I wish to be transferred from Kirkwall to Starkhaven. Orsino will approve it, but I need the Circle's approval here as well. Would be better if the prince approved me personally."

"I didn't realize there were conditions attached to this." Goran still wouldn't look at her.

Amethyne ignored that he wasn't speaking to her, and the way her eyes bore into him, even though he continued to avoid her gaze was interesting to say the least.  "You need something from me. I need something from you."

"My apologies, Your Highness," Traven said, sounding sincere. "I was going to bring a formal request to your attention once the ritual was complete."

Goran nodded at Traven in forgiveness, but Samantha was still curious about the elf’s reasons.

"Why do you want to leave Kirkwall?"

Amethyne turned to her, those eyes twinkling like big sapphires. "Mages like me don't last long in a city like Kirkwall. Most of my friends have been made Tranquil already."

"They become maleficar?" Samantha asked innocently, feeling alarmed.

"No," she answered with a glare. "The Knight Commander of Kirkwall is…" She glanced at Traven, who was watching her closely. "…not like the Knight Commander here. Or so everyone says. Either way, I'll take my chances."

The elf was brazen in her request to leave that city, and Samantha wondered if the reputation of Kirkwall's Templar Order was understated.

Goran was still deep in thought, asking questions that seemed random to everyone else, but likely were perfectly linear in his mind. "You said you could be assaulted. Does this mean you're going to enter the Fade? Is Samantha going to be in the Fade?"

The First Enchanter hesitated briefly. "Not exactly. I need the energy from the Fade to tap into her subconscious, to enable her to remember. It's like a doorway and it will be open. Lady Samantha will be exposed, as will I, but we will be protected."

"By the elf," Goran finished, and Amethyne looked like she wanted to strangle him at his constant refusal to say her name.

Keis grumbled something about regret before she spoke up. "Then I'm going with her. Her life is mine, and where she goes, I go."

"It's not like that, Your Highness." Raddick kept calm, though his façade was slowly crumbling.

"Keis is going." Goran demanded, and Samantha knew that this was as good as she was going to get.

The First Enchanter only sighed and Amethyne shuffled noisily, still staring at Goran. It was obvious that she wanted some kind of answer to her request.

Goran set his gaze upon Samantha and she could see the real fear there: that he would lose her, his only friend. For if she was gone, then he would be left alone and no soul in the realm would know him, would know his heart, would know that he loved painting and eggs, disliked oranges and the famous Starkhaven Fish Pie, loved to be read to but disliked reading for himself, enjoyed silence over idle chit-chat, and painted his mother more often than anyone else. Goran needed people, perhaps more than most, and he had lost nearly all of his already.

Goran finally turned to Raddick. "If Samantha makes it through this unscathed, I'll consider the elf's request."

Amethyne grinned in triumph.

"We will need more candles," Raddick murmured to her. "This is going to take a while."

It took an hour for the area to be set up properly, about as long as it took for the arrival of the guards that Goran insisted stand vigil outside the door, and he even called a few Templars in case "the Veil was ripped open or something." Everyone thought him paranoid and ignorant about magic, but they all understood that the Prince of Starkhaven was going to take his precautions whether they argued with him about it or not.

The First Enchanter and Amethyne sat on either side of Samantha and Keis who were seated together on a high-backed lounge. Raddick closed his eyes and began to murmur, the words unintelligible even if they were in the native tongue of the Free Marches. There was a glow about him, burning out from his skin and through his clothes, something hazy and yellowish, like the aura just before a sunrise. Goran started to fidget again.

Amethyne took one of Samantha's hands, and a tingling sensation stretched up her arm like thorny vines settling onto her skin. After a moment, it began to burn, and she looked down to see the long scratch – it was there!

"How—?" she looked up to Amethyne but the elf looked confused, glancing at Raddick who never broke concentration.

A sickness rose up through her, not unlike the way she felt when she first saw her brother in that dark dungeon cell. It squirmed in her belly like a sack of worms, and she was certain she would be ill. Her legs began to ache with a pain that grew out from somewhere deep in her skin. Her hands felt spongy, pliable, and when one tear slid down her cheek, she heard Goran say something somewhere off in the distance but she closed her eyes anyway _and when I open them up I am crashing down the stairs, my body slamming into the wall at the turn and I throw myself at the front doors, pulling the handle but it won't move and I pull again but it won't move and I am fumbling with the latch until it finally clicks and as I throw the door open, the pungent fog greeting me, burning my eyes and—_

 _I freeze. My hands are still clutching the door. It's my Beenie._  


	29. 9:31 Dragon, Spring

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warriors aren't supposed to cry.

**9:31 Dragon, Spring**

_That is my not ceiling._

_I sit up, and there is a very strange sensation when I do because my body doesn't feel attached to me. I feel... I would describe it as numbness but it's not that, it's just that somehow everything is muted. Being aware that you are dreaming is weird enough, but being aware that you are dreaming inside someone else's head is beyond description._

_Maker. The things I do for… His Highness. It's hard for me to look at him and see him as prince sometimes, because he's not very princely. Well, whatever._

_I am sitting on a stone floor in a small stone room. There is no bench, no chair, and no window. Water drips from somewhere. Before I can venture a guess about where I am, an unnaturally loud thunderclap shakes the floor. I hop up quickly, and am pleased to discover that I am wearing my armor, my sword is sheathed on my hip, and my shield is slung from my back. This is what I was wearing before I entered this dream. I spin in a circle before I see the dark wooden door. If not for the strange shadows of this room, it would have been obvious. I reach for the latch only to discover that there isn't one. The door is a solid plank of wood and when I push against it, it doesn't move. I push again, but it doesn't give._

_What vile trick is this? Calm down, Keis. It's just a door, and it can be broken._

_I brace myself against the walls of this room, for if I stretch my arms wide, I can touch opposite walls, and give the door a solid kick. It rattles, but stays shut. This is starting to irritate me. I bring my shield from my back, and brace my body behind it, ramming my shield-covered shoulder into the door, popping it off the stone as the latch on the other side has been loosened from its hinge. Another kick flings the door open, and a rusted iron lock bounces off the opposite wall._

_I emerge into another small chamber with at least a dozen wooden doors lining the grey stone walls. There's a staircase at the far end, and I rush to it, climbing the steps two at a time, running my hand along the curved wall because of the pitch._

_At the top of the staircase, I am surprised by a pair of shades. They hiss in the way nightmares do, breathing out smoke and fury. Their bodies are like open furnaces, and the fuming heat instantly makes me start sweating. One of them lashes out at me, its long limb grazing my shield, and I move back, flush against the wall, wresting my sword from its sheath. The other one lunges for me, and I slink sidelong against the stone while swinging my sword upwards and into it. I don't meet much resistance as I slice through its smoldering interior, and it whooshes backwards against the wall, dissipating into nothing. Barely a moment passes before, from the corner of my eye, I see the second one moving. I swivel my hip and we dance for a moment, moving around each other like a game of hunter and prey until it moves to strike again, and I pivot on my toes, driving my sword into its side when it slides in front of me. It shrieks before folding over on itself, the blackness clearing out of the corridor in seconds. For all their power, it's amazing that these creatures are mostly smoke._

_Already exhausted, my breath comes in heaves, and I want to take off my armor to cool down, but I have to keep moving. I have to find Lady Samantha._

_I feel like I'm in a maze. I turn this way and that, up another set of narrow stairs, down a long darkened hallway, moving upwards all the while. The further I travel, the more lamps and light I see, which must be a good sign. Finally, I crash through a set of grand double doors and enter a room that causes my stomach to clench with dread._

_The plush rug. The bookcases. The walls that stretch up into darkness so thick that one has to travel three floors to see the painted ceiling. I am standing in the main library of the Circle Tower of Starkhaven. It's currently on fire, and at any moment, it's all going to come crashing down._

_Another loud boom shakes the area, and I stumble to my knees, unable to keep my balance. The burning books shuffle in their case, many fly forward from the shelves, sailing through the air and leaving trails of ash behind them. The candles rattle in their fixtures, the streaks of old tallow on the sconces cracking and I cover my head when some plunk down to the plush rug around me. Smoke is gathering near the ceiling, and if I don't get out of here soon, this thing is going to collapse on my head._

_I don't know whether it's luck or chance that a group of mages burst through one of the adjacent corridors. The noise surprises me because it's so sudden, and a man in a robe nearly runs me over in his escape. He is followed by two women, and one of them is holding a little boy. I call out to them, but they don't answer. Am I not really here? Seconds later, another group clamors through the library; two Templars and one guard, and I recognize all three of them. Sers Langley and Traven, and me._

_It's funny to see yourself when you don't realize you're being watched. There is a momentary lapse in my judgment as I give in to vain fascination, watching myself run and jump from the room._

_It only takes a second to regain my senses, and I scramble to my feet, chasing after both groups through the darkened hallways of the Tower. The mages blast the Western Doors off their hinges in their escape, leaving a smoking hulk of splintered wood that Ser Langley drives through with determination, parting the red-hot embers with his black-bladed sword. The rest of the group is right behind him. I leap over what's left and stumble into the street._

_The scene outside greets me with nightmarish familiarity. I halt in my tracks as the smoke-filled air chokes me nearly to tears, and I cough reactively. My pause is short, because my foreknowledge of what is coming pulls my gaze to the west. The mages have taken a turn, heading towards the Western Gates where Clive and Bryn, two Starkhaven guards, cut them off, effectively surrounding them._

_They have to stop running now, but in that moment when they decide to fight back, their fates are sealed, and I hate them to this day for it. There is yelling, and this is where the Templars are trying to convince the mages to give themselves up, but they won't. Certain that the Templars will fry them for trying to escape, the adult mages start throwing fireballs and juts of ice. The little boy stumbles back... I feel sick to my stomach. I don't want to stay here for this._

_It takes considerable strength to turn away, blinking back the burning in my eyes and that's when I hear it. Laughter. It's so faint, barely there, but I hear it. It's coming from someplace far away, and I can almost pinpoint the direction, but the streets are in chaos. Men and women are running through the wafting haze, and I can hear cries and screams for help in the distance. Small children, orphans most likely, huddle in darkened alleyways, playing wide-eyed possum. Templars rush past me, bustling to get inside the Circle Tower and I want to scream at them to stop, to run the other direction, but it's futile. All of this has already happened._

_Separating myself from this place is difficult. At every turn, I see something that pulls me, that makes me want to anchor myself here, to help those around me, but I am harshly reminded that this is not real. I am not here. This is only a memory, even if it is one that burns._

_I wonder how Samantha knew all of this was going on, since she was in her home for most of this night, but perhaps the magic that brought us here has something to do with it. Briefly, I wonder if this is my dream, too. Magic; it has never made any sense to me. I know only what they teach in the Chantry, because my parents were farmers and books were not part of my daily routine. This whole dream-land is definitely beyond my experience, but I do know that demons cannot create. The Chant of Light says so. They can only tap into what is in the dreamer's mind. And from now on, this is my dream, too._

_I crane my neck, tilting my chin to the black tower that shadows me from above, engulfed in flame and ash, the sinewy smoke pouring into to the heavens, and again I am reminded that it won't be long before the Circle Tower comes crashing down. I need to get to the Mayweather Estate._

_I manage to take three steps before the roar assaults me. Every muscle in my body freezes. I know that sound, because I was there when the demon made its appearance._

_My eyes are open but what's in front of me is stained red. I try not to think about those mages who transformed into monsters. I try not to think of how the ridges that lined their backs cut into my hands as I feebly tried to pull the beasts off of Clive, whom they ripped open at his throat. I try not to think of how Bryn screamed when one of their pincers lanced her in the gut. But mostly, I try not to think about that little mage boy who couldn't have been older than ten. He never tried to fight us. He was trying to flee the violence, but Ser Langley ran him through anyway. Hugh, my brother and fellow guardsman, never saw that. If he had, he might never have joined the Templars. He might never have moved away to Kirkwall. I never got a chance to tell him about that little boy. About how he died. Warriors aren't supposed to cry. I turn away from the gates._

_With a deep breath, and this time there is no coughing, I sprint through the smoke that blankets the streets like a winter's fog; visibility is half a block at best and I reach the Mayweather Estate by memory alone instead of by landmarks. It's not hard to find if you know the granite path._

_I arrive at the estate in time to see Corbinian standing on the doorstep. His sword hangs loosely from his fingertips and the tip of it is oddly split in two. When the door swings open, I see her. Lady Samantha. Her hands grip the doors, her face is streaked with tears, her eyes are wide and frightened and her hair is a tangled mess. She wears nothing but a short nightdress and her locket. Her bare feet are small and she looks younger than usual._

_But there is another in this little scene, and it is most definitely a demon. Its swaying body is many shades of purple, its fingers are long with four-inch claws, but aside from its—her?—blatant nudity and that long tail, it's the horns that make the creature intimidating. They stretch backwards off her head like bigger Qunari horns, curving around to fine points and are engulfed in purple flames that don't reach any great height. She is giggling – the laughter in the wind – and in an instant, Samantha's jaw goes slack._

_A boy appears behind Samantha, his face crumpled and his voice anguished when he wails, What did you make me do?_

_The demons speaks. Her voice is soft like velvet yet flat as stone, and it reverberates a little, almost like it's amplified by something inside her. She says, What you most desired._

_Let her go! he cries._

_The demon turns her horrible eyes, metallic and swirling, to Corbinian as she says, I can give her everything she desires and more. Their desire is so strong… so pure… they will be so happy._

_Samantha starts to make these noises, like the kind my mother made whenever she ate chocolate cake, and Corbinian moans a little, too. It's startling to see their countenance change so completely. Moments ago, Corbinian was staring forward like a suit of arms and Samantha still has tears dripping down her cheeks. But now they both moan in pleasure._

_The boy grips his staff, it's a strange stick with two globes of glass on either end, one black and one white, and he says, I won't let you! The deal was just for my parents – not her!_

_She turns those horrible eyes to the boy that I now recognize as Innley, but only because of the drawings of him from the Knight Commander's Most Wanted List._

_She says with her terrible voice, There are so many who have wronged you, forgotten about you as you withered away in that dungeon. Has this girl not been one of them? Did she not go on with her own selfish existence while you were chained to a wall in that prison cell?_

_Innley's face twists with many so things; a combination of confusion, rage, and doubt._

_The demon runs a hand over her breast, purring, Your freedom is waiting for you. Just beyond those gates. Your beloved sister will feel only happiness for the rest of her life._

_Innley seems dubious but he's eyeing the gates. He looks worried about getting captured, but I know better. I know that right now in the streets of Starkhaven, the blackness and smoke cover everything so absolutely leaving nothing but confusion._

_And right on schedule, the tower collapses. All of them, me included, stumble to the ground. Instinctively, I scramble around to see the top of the tower in all its fiery inferno, the smoke trailing upwards as the Tower silently sails downward behind faraway buildings until moments later when a loud boom shakes the ground and the walls and the trees and rattles everyone down to the marrow in our bones._

_I remember this moment. When this happened, I was holding that small boy's body just outside the Western Gates. I think about him a lot. His little hands and feet, his big, brown eyes._ Help me, _he said as the blood seeped out from his belly and into his clothes and then onto me and all over my hands and my armor and in my hair and on my cheek because I lifted my finger up to brush away stupid tears. Warriors aren't supposed to cry. I turn away from the tower._

_Fine, Innley says, but there is a growl underneath that acquiescence. His eyes burn a strange green for only a moment, and I know then that he is an abomination. Maleficar._

_Let us go then, the demon sings. She nearly floats behind Corbinian and Samantha who move like… people who are possessed, I guess. They move without personality, stiff like wooden boats on a river._

_We exit through the Eastern Gates and the cobblestones on this side are jagged. At one time, there were plans to relay these stones, to make them smoother. After the Vaels died, those plans got delayed. My father once said to me that some things take precedence over laying stone into the earth. He was talking about building me my own room. That was the day we burned my mother on a pyre. I was eleven._

_Why are these thoughts coming to me? I am following Corbinian, Samantha, Innley, and this truly heinous demon and I am thinking of my father. I shake my head, trying to clear away the rubble but there's so much, and it's piled so high that I just want to stop. I just want to stop._

_Eventually, we do stop underneath an enormous sycamore tree. Innley leans against the trunk and stares at Samantha and I can only imagine that she thinks that she and Corbinian are having some pretty hot sex back in her bedroom. Maybe that is a kindness. Maybe I am outside her subconscious and that's why I see this instead of that._

_Innley looks to Corbinian and with considerable effort, he pushes himself off the trunk of the tree and removes the sword from Corbinian's hand. I watch him as he stares at it. He looks at the bent-back tip and the demon giggles. She lifts up her palm where there is a gash oozing some black paste, and she extends her tongue, long and silver like her eyes and she licks her palm like an ice cream cone, savoring it. I am wondering if that is her blood as she says, He is such a fighter, so full of passion and strength._

_Keep her happy, Innley mumbles and he sounds resigned, like he cannot fight this demon. Then he turns and walks away._

_I watch him go and the hate fills me up, surging through my veins, and I swear to the Maker himself that I hope I never come across that boy. I will surely commit the gravest sin a woman can commit if I do._

_I plop down in the grass and stare at the pair. They are sitting against the tree, Samantha's head is propped on Corbinian's shoulder and his arm is around her protectively. I wonder if the demon made them do that or something else inside them just did it. The demon is swaying gently nearby, her eyes closed as if she is deep in meditation. Every once in a while, she murmurs something, a giggle or a moan just as they make similar sounds, as if they are sharing in the experience and I think about how perverse this is._

_I turn my head to look at Starkhaven in the distance. Maker in the heavens… we are so close. So close and no one found them out there. Four days will go by and we never looked out here? My mind wants to blame someone, but it's no one's fault but Innley's that they are out here, vulnerable and alone, the feast of a demon in heat. We are supposed to protect the citizens. The nobles, the peasants, the elves, the mages. All of them. I think of that boy again. Warriors aren't supposed to cry._

_Luckily, some group of jerks interrupts this little scene. There are four of them, and they look surly. The kind of men that take whatever fancies them and enjoy the taking as much as the possessing and they are eyeing Samantha hungrily._

_Oh, Andraste's favor. Please, no._

_The demon opens her eyes with a start, her body's sway ceasing immediately and she is between the pair of lovers and the men faster than I have seen anyone ever move. The group of men seem disturbed at first, but the way they look at Samantha, I can't even stand it. I almost wish I were really here and that I could kill them. I would. With my bare hands._

_The tallest of the four speaks, Looks like we got a souvenir, boys._

_The demon giggles, speaking in her terrible rhythm, Such a strong man. Such intent. But you are only an ant in servant to a queen. Wouldn't you prefer to be king?_

_What? he asks, confused._

_You could be a leader, she purrs. The men would follow you and all the spoils would be yours._

_The man is mesmerized by her voice, but one of the others seems irritated and says to the tall one, What's wrong with you?_

_The tall one shakes his head fervently and says, Hand over the girl and this can end all peaceful-like._

_This isn't your affair, the demon says, darker this time._

_All four of them draw their swords; apparently, they are so single-minded in their quest, as short-term as it is, that her charms don't work._

_I feel panicked, because I can do nothing. Nothing at all. The demon looks at them intently, but even I know that she may not survive their onslaught, not with Corbinian and Samantha taking up so much of her energy. She is feeding on them, it's true, but it must take considerable strength to keep them under and she can't possibly control six people. But she surprises me – she does me one better, because she turns to Corbinian and shrieks like a little girl._

_Papa! Papa! There are men here! They want to harm mother! They want to harm us!_

_NO!! Corbinian shouts, and I can see his skin turn red with rage but his eyes are strangely devoid of anything. Like white marbles that someone painted with little blue circles._

_He leaps to his feet, and I feel some relief that he is at least wearing his armor. The Vael armor is the best there is – I know, because His Highness, Prince Goran, commissioned me a set. The golden plate pieces are as strong as ten men and they cover Corbinian's chest, legs, shoulders, and arms in several pieces, all held together with a fine chain mesh that is enchanted to be as strong as plate. He wears it like a glove and when the tall one thrusts his sword out in front of him, Corbinian hops to the side, grabbing the man's wrist so fast that I can't believe it. He yanks the sword from the man's hand and in a single motion, flips it around, and runs it through the man's stomach at an upward angle. The man gasps repeatedly, blood shooting out from his mouth – Corbinian has sliced open his lungs. As the man is falling to the earth, Corbinian pulls the shield from the mercenary's fingers and turns to the other three._

_They seem hesitant at first, but the fact that there are three of them gives them some kind of confidence and I find myself wincing when two of them lunge at Corbinian, who pushes both of their swords away in a single motion with the shield. The third man is the smartest of the bunch because he goes for the demon who is still screaming like a child._

_Samantha remains slumped against the tree, her eyes now open but vacant, and I pray to the Maker that she can't really see this._

_I stumble backwards, trying to get a better view as Corbinian deflects a sword with his sword, blocks the other weapon with his shield, swivels his hips and turns his shoulder into each movement, so graceful and practiced. He is obviously more skilled than ten of these idiots put together. The pair of attackers manage to maneuver around Corbinian so that they are on opposite sides of him, and this isn't the best position, but they don't know him. I've seen him fight. It's like he's dancing._

_Corbinian thrusts his shield out, and the first man's head flies backwards and I can see little white bits flying away, remnants of his teeth; Corbinian turns his shoulders and brings his sword upwards which vertically slashes open the belly of the second man, knocking him back in a bloody, disgusting mess; Corbinian turns his head but keeps his body sideways as he kicks out, his boot hammering into the stomach of the man with the broken teeth who stumbles backwards to the ground. There are horrible sounds then, gurgling and spitting, a wailing cry that dies away as the second man falls over to his side, ceremoniously dead._

_Corbinian then turns to the man with the broken teeth who is still on the ground and holding his stomach._

_But something happens because the demon cries out. I've been watching Corbinian masterfully cut down two men but the third is on the demon and he must have got her with his sword, because her chest is oozing a viscous, black liquid. He has cut open her breast. Corbinian shakes his head, removing his helmet and looking around dazedly._

_My mouth drops open, because I recognize that the demon, in her injury, has lost her grip on Corbinian._

_He mumbles, staring at his surroundings, clearly confused while looking at the sword and shield in his hands, recognizing that they are not his own, seeing the dead men on the ground. In the confusion, the man whom Corbinian had knocked over scrambles through the tall grass to Samantha, wrapping a thick arm around her body, his hand clamping down on her upper arm. He is holding his a newly drawn dagger to her belly. She is a rag doll in his hands._

_My breathing is ragged even though I know that she lives through this. I know it, but that doesn't mean I don't still burn for her safety. I have kept her alive for two years now, and it shocks me to see firsthand how close she actually came to death._

_The third man is pointing his sword at the demon as he says, The girl. Give her over._

_My gaze darts over to Corbinian who regrips his sword and finally speaks: I am Marquess Corbinian Vael, nephew to the Prince of Starkhaven. Lower your swords or I will kill you both where you stand._

_Oooooh, the fourth one says, You're a Vael, are you? Then, you get to die before we take this little pretty with us!_

_The other one, the one who holds Samantha, snickers. These must be some of Flint's men, finished with their contractual deed back in Starkhaven. Corbinian doesn't know his family is gone…_

_The demon hisses, and it was wrong for the third man to hold her without killing her because the Chantry teaches us that demons don't feel pain like the rest of us. She lunges for him, her four-inch claws sinking deep into his chest but he stabs back at her, sinking his sword into her side. It doesn't go very far. Viciously, she drives her claws downwards, crunching through bone and muscle, a wicked sneer across her lips as she does it, enjoying every last moment of this man's life which she clearly devours as he gasps his final breath. She is injured, but quickly recovering._

_Corbinian holds rigid, licking his lips as his gaze shifts from the demon to the man who is still holding on to Samantha. The last of Flint's men seems startled, scared even._

_The demon gives Corbinian a sickening smile as she says, You love her. It pours from every inch of you. You desire nothing more than her safety._

_I will kill you, Corbinian swears._

_Not today, she stretches out the words like a promise._

_Let her go._

_The mercenary shifts, clearing his throat and says with a new lisp because half of his teeth are chipped or missing, Eh, excuse me. If you two haven't noticed, I have the girl._

_Corbinian grinds his teeth, staring at the demon with a fury that I've never seen, and at first I don't understand. Why is he waiting? But then I remember my lessons from the Chantry: the demon has Samantha under her influence, and so she can take Samantha's life with merely a thought. But she also needs Samantha to live outside the Fade. Corbinian is educated, raised in a palace with books and tutors and he understands volumes of things that I don't even know exist. But we all learn about demons. The Chantry sees to that._

_He has a choice to make, and it's now obvious to me what choice that is. If he goes for the demon, the man will either take Samantha and run or slice open her belly and she will wake up, completely aware of herself before she bleeds out in all its agonizing glory. Just like that little boy. If he goes for the man, the demon will kill Samantha with a thought. Maybe she can then take Corbinian back under her influence just as she did before, maybe he can fight her off, but Samantha will be gone either way._

_She lives, Corbinian grinds out._

_The demon is breathing heavily, holding onto her breast when she says, You'll take her place?_

_It takes all he can muster to force the word through his teeth: Yes._

_The demon giggles girlishly, and Corbinian no longer needs the demon to propel him into motion. He moves quickly without reservation or remorse, flying towards the man who has Samantha wrapped up in his dirty vice-like grip, and he sinks a dead man's sword deep into the mercenary's shoulder. The man's arm flies out wildly and the side of his dagger cuts into Samantha's arm, leaving a long gash. Blood leaks out from her wound in tiny trails of red as she slumps to the ground, still unconscious._

_But before Corbinian can finish him off, the man scrambles to his feet and takes off, running like mad into the enormous field. Samantha is still out cold and her wound looks superficial, but I notice that her necklace is gone – that little weasel ripped it from her neck as though he knew he was going to make a run for it. I guess I shouldn't be surprised. A murderer_ and _a thief._

_The demon's hands smooth over the skin of Samantha's shoulders as she lifts her up to her feet and says, A bargain is a bargain._

_But I know that Samantha is not safe yet._

_Corbinian looks over his shoulder to Starkhaven, which is smoldering in the distance, and he's breathing hard, his hands gripping that sword and shield so tightly that I can see his knuckles turning white. I can also see his pain; it twists his face and hardens his whole body as he shakes with it. It is agonizing to watch._

_She'll be safe here? he asks, still concerned of course; that mercenary could come back when they're gone._

_She will be, the demon promises. No one will see her. She will wake up when it's safe._

_Will she… remember?_

_His voice is so heartbreaking. Warriors aren't supposed to cry._

_Nothing, the demon promises._

_These are the choices that love forces us to make._

_With a last lingering look to Samantha, he says, Do it._

_There is a blinding flash and an explosive wind, both so bright and strong that I am knocked back to the ground, shielding my eyes as the world around me turns white and noisy. When I open them next, I see the demon sauntering away, Corbinian at her side, his gait calm and stiff. Samantha, I can't see. She is gone. I scramble around but I can't find her until I literally trip over her, but she is not there. She must be invisible, I think. I reach down, and sure enough, I feel her arm, soft and pliable like a lady's should be._

_I look back up to see the two figures turning black in the distance as they disappear on the northern horizon._

_And just like that, Corbinian Vael has broken the Oath of Starkhaven._


	30. 9:34 Dragon, Autumn

**9:34 Dragon, Autumn**

_A kick to the ribs wakes me, along with the words, Get up stupid. This is a normal morning for me. During the day, I will be kicked, punched, spit on, and humiliated in other ways. I won't get much for lunch, but after dinner, I will be pushed to the ground rather hard and ordered to sleep._

_I have been transferred five times, always in shackles and usually drugged – these slavers have a good system. It is nearly impossible to escape. I say nearly, because a child escaped once. It was a girl, and she slipped through the ropes and the pens and into the darkness and we never saw her again. They put a head on a pike, and claimed they got her, but it wasn't her head. It wasn't even a child's head. Oh, they tried to make it look like her, to try and scare the rest of us into not running, but it wasn't her. She got out. Maybe she lives still._

_I have tried to escape six times. Every time, I have been chased down and beaten to unconsciousness. Every time, I have woken up with a healer's hand waving over me. I bet that I'll fetch a good price, because I've watched them kill scrawnier men for much less. I know why they feed me. I know why they chase me down and then heal me. It's not every day that you find a strong and healthy young man to sell. As soon as I am broken, that is._

_We live in a pen like caged animals and are treated accordingly. Chained to the fence and to each other, our hands are bound and our feet are tied together in loops of connected rope. It's a smart move, I'll give them that. It's hard to run when you have to drag a dozen people with you, some of whom don't want to run. That last part is baffling – why would anyone not want to run?_

_There's a little boy seated next to me; he doesn't even have hair on his arms, yet. Maker, he's so young – what's he doing here? He doesn't shy away from me like the others, even though being around me tends to invite the attention of the slavers. But most others don't know what awaits them. Regardless of how we act, if we perform as instructed and are compliant with the rules, the same fate awaits us all. I've read all about it. I've sat with my father and uncle and listened to men tell stories about slavers; brave men who have escaped, brave men who hid along dirt roads as carts filled with women and children rolled by. Brave men that hid for a good reason. Yes, I know that I shouldn't talk back to the guards. I could avoid a lot of beatings if I bore their insults and accepted their scorn. It would make surviving this a little bit easier. But that's not me. I'm not going to let them treat me like a dog, because I am no dog. I'm a Vael._

_This slavers ring is run by the Antivan Crows – I recognize the symbol some of them have stitched into their jackets. Slavery must be a lucrative business, because I grew up learning that the Crows value coin as well as notoriety. I wonder if that’s the reason the Qunari keep their distance. In any case, I don't know what the Crows want with me. All of these others are just labor for their mines, indentured servants that will be shipped off wherever the Crows need them. I am certain that they don't know who I am. These are the kind of people that would throw that back in my face. No, their only requirement is to break me down so I can be sold. Or... I read once that the Crows recruit into their ranks from those they capture: men and women, even children. But I am no mercenary. I am no assassin. There's no honor in striking from the shadows. The slaver guards must know this about me, and while I am strong, I am more trouble than I'm worth. It's likely that they will try to get rid of me at some point, high profit or not.  I am certain that if I don't prove compliant soon, they will sell me to Tevinter, and then some magister will turn my brain to sludge and the rest of me into whatever they want. I don't want to end up a mindless laborer... or worse. I have to keep trying. I have to get home._

_There have been so many times that—when I was traveling, imprisoned, or infirm— I elected not to run, because it didn't feel right, but each time I did try to get away, I knew that I would get caught the instant that I started. We are kept weak, and the guards are kept strong, which is why I can't run fast enough. I tell myself to stay sharp, to listen, to wait for the right opportunity, but these are the Crows. Their mastery is preventing opportunities, and every day that passes, I know that my chances are running out._

_A frumpy woman with a cart ambles to a stop in front of our pen, and upon her halt, the contents of the vat that she ferries sloshes unappealingly. She ladles some of it into bowls and hands it to the guards, who leer at her. They are so disgusting – is every woman just a repository for their sex? They thrust the bowls at us, and we have to stumble to catch them before their contents spill all over the dirt. It's a meager breakfast and it tastes like rotten oats in dirty water, but we all eat it anyway._

_The guards sit down for their slop after taking shifts watching over us. The men outside our pen are talking in Antivan. A lot of what I used to know has come back to me since I've been around it, and they haven't figured out that I can mostly understand them. I've gotten to know their names, their families’ names, their friends’ names. I know when they eat, sleep, relieve themselves, what makes me them angry or laugh, which ones snore and which ones sleep as light as a feather. They start boasting about how many women they've "taken" in how many different cities, and how they visit each of them periodically. They laugh about how they brutalize these poor girls, violently filling their bellies with bastards. They talk about the men they've killed, the wild animals they've hunted, they boast of their kills as though the act of killing is an afterthought to the accomplishment of it. But I know that no man who brags about his accomplishments is as brave as he claims._

_I think about my Sammie when they talk. I think about her slumped against that tree, the bruises on her legs and arms where that filthy mercenary's bare hands touched her. I use that anger. It's better food than this slop._

_One of the guards turns to look at the boy, and I can feel him tense up. I glance over, and the fear in his eyes blankets me. It's like sitting too close to a fire pit, and I want to move away, but I can't. I'm roped to him just like the woman on the other side of him. She shifts uncomfortably, and I will her to stay still. Moving gets their attention. Attention is death for the weak._

_Stop movin' unless you want a sting, one of the guards says, cackling, and everyone around me freezes, their eyes turned downward._

_A sting. That's what the guards call their throwing potions and they're very effective. Little yellow vials that easily shatter with pressure. The liquid stings like mad, paralyzing its target momentarily so that the guards can come close enough to administer a beating. Once you're incapacitated, it's hard to fight back._

_The woman is breathing hard, and she closes her eyes. But I don't. I look at them. I'm always watching. The things they do to people here… Witnessing it, fighting against it, taking a beating in place of someone else… these are the things that happen to me when women in my pen move. I almost want her to move just so I can dish out as much as I get._

_The little boy looks back down, his watery eyes leaking droplets onto the dry dirt. He's afraid. Fear is our worst enemy here. Just like in the swamp, fear will break you, and it will break you before the slavers do. It works through the body like a cold; slow at first, and then it sinks in, infecting your sight, your hearing, shaking your hands and clogging your mind. It's hard to think clearly when you're afraid. I give him a very slight nudge with my elbow, and he nods his head once as though he understands. But what's there to understand? He's a child. None of this must make much sense to him._

_After a short time, the guards turn away, but only because they need to begin the morning routine of transferring us to the mines. We are loaded into small carts, and the boy is taken on a different cart from me. I watch him go, wondering if he'll make it back up today; I am not sure that would be a blessing. Maybe it would be better for him to die rather than live like this._

_Mules packed with supplies pull us down narrow and winding paths, the walls stretching up higher and higher the further down we go, entrenching us in the earth. We will be forced to haul rock out of the mine all day with few breaks. The guards work in shifts, standing around, pacing, their hands on their swords, their gazes on us._

_The day turns late, and I am hauling a crate of rocks to a cart when a great rumbling from somewhere echoes up the ravine. At first, it sounds like it's coming from the sky but then the ground begins to shudder, little vibrations that rattle the pebbles and kick up dust. Then a jolt snakes beneath my feet like a lightning bolt in the dirt, and I stumble but catch myself. A few others nearby fall to their knees, dropping their crates and gripping their carts to keep steady._

_Panic erupts in the forms of cries and groans, and our limbs flail for something solid, but as quickly as the rumbling dismantles us, it stops. The silence is more than I can stand, and I look around, finding similar sets of fearful expressions. Just as I am wondering if that was an earthquake or something, a cry canons up the canyon, bouncing off the rock and I can't quite pinpoint where it originated. There is one thing that is clear though: it's precursor to something terrible. Everyone around me seems to have that thought at the same time, and some fly for cover, ducking under their carts while the guards take shelter under their shields. I crouch under the nearest cart and from my vantage point, I can see down the rocky path, but what's coming doesn't look real._

_Off in the distance, down the long entrenched path, I see the ground cave in, as though the earth is taking a deep breath, and then quite suddenly, everything that was drawn in is belched back out. Earth and stone and people go flying through the air like dolls from a child's hands. The resulting cloud of dust that billows up from the pathway rushes towards me, and it's all I can do to duck and cover my face. As much as I try, dirt still gets in my mouth._

_The noise. It's like wind if wind could scream bloody murder. I cough compulsively, because the dirt in my mouth is sinking down my throat. Seconds drag, and the ground begins to shake in earnest, knocking even the strongest and most sure-footed of us flying, and sending us tumbling with the rest of the rocks. Some of the other captives have found something solid to anchor themselves to, but I am not so lucky and, eventually, I end up slamming shoulder-first against the rock face. Pain explodes like a whip has cracked against the tissues inside my shoulder, up my neck, down my side, across my chest._

_Finally, after an endless river of noise and dirt and wind, the air calms and the earth's seizures recede. I push myself up with the arm attached to my good shoulder and look around._

_Many are moving, albeit slowly, testing their bodies and the ground. Some have realized that the guards are not really paying attention anymore and start to move with haste. I scramble up, but a sharp shot of pain pierces my clavicle._ Damn it _! I can't have a broken shoulder! Not now! Others are now running by me as I struggle to move. I have to move._ Damnit, Beenie, move _!_

 _Gasping for air, and with my chest heaving, I place one foot flat on the ground and lift myself up. I drag the other foot in front of me, I wince, I grit my teeth, but something is really wrong with me, and I stumble back to my knees._ Get up, you fool! You can't stop! Get up!

_Someone small appears at my side, and their tiny hand hooks underneath my arm, trying to push me into motion and I look up. It's the boy! Maker in the Heavens… he looks like hell. His hair is standing straight off his head, like he was electrocuted or something. He has small gashes along his legs and arms, bruises and welts where he has been burned along his chest, and his trousers have been singed along the hem. He wears no tunic, and his thinness is frightening. He looks nearly skeletal, and his tearful eyes bulge from his small head like saucers full of water._

_Get up, he whispers._

_I'm trying, I slur, my head in a fog._

_I stumble again, trying to use my legs but I'm so tired. So tired. Through the stabbing pain in my shoulder, the blurring world, and my legs wobbling from lack of energy, I pull the life from deep within me, willing my body to move forward. I feel a tickling sensation down my arm, and although I am sweating like a roasting pig and coughing like a dying man, I finally manage to stand. Once on my feet, I find the energy to move, breathing deeply again. I hadn't noticed before, but I was struggling for breath. The smoke must be clearing._

_We have to go! he rasps again, his voice wavering with panic._

_My shoulder still aches and my chest hurts, but not nearly as bad as before, and I place a hand on the boy's bony shoulder to right myself. I hear yelling now as the guards have come to their senses and the pit bosses are yelling orders. The boy tugs on my ratty tunic, urging me to move, and with a shake of my head to focus on what I should do, I stagger forward. My feet drag at first, but eventually I find the strength to walk. Then even jog. The little boy's legs don't move as far as mine, but the canyon is winding and the path is narrow. I pray to Andraste that we don't run into guards on the way up._

_Of course we do, but they scramble past us, intent on getting to the bottom of the quarry. I have no idea why, and no time to think about it, as the boy and I trip over rocks in our stumble upwards. Once we reach the top, the dirt and dust nearly chokes us. It's chaos up here, as many have worked their way out of their ropes and bindings and are now running every which way, scrambling like ants from under a rock. There's screaming; someone has set a fire to one of the tents, and the smoke is billowing up and out, invading my lungs. I cough as I cringe away from the licking flames which leap from tent to tent, eating away at the canvas. Horses that are tied up scream for help; the cows, goats, and chickens squawk and scramble in their pens, trying to escape the fires and the people, some of whom are fighting. Others are looting, many are just running, but all of it is kicking up the dirt so that it blankets the already smoky area like additional fog. This is good for us._

_I grab the boy's arm and pull him as fast as my wobbling legs will take us, and I am aiming for the screaming horse. It's a mess, this horse. Its eyes are open wide, its legs shuffling wildly, bucking its head against the rope tied from the fence to its harness right under its chin._

_I put out my palms and get low, moving towards the horse and staring right into its eyes. Once I get closer, I see it’s a mare, and she whinnies ferociously at me, shaking her head back and forth. I use a soothing tone, moving around to her side… just a little closer… once I grab her reins, she starts to flail. I hold on tight, pulling against her, but she shakes her head, and I stumble forward, unable to help the groan that escapes from me as she pulls on my shoulder. She drags me about a foot before I can get to her, and I throw my hand out at her snout, pinching the spot right between her nostrils. She lets out a small whimper. It's a trick the trainers teach to exert control over a horse. It's painful and I hate doing it, but I need her to listen to me, For both our sakes. I move as swiftly as I can, lifting her chin with the halter right beneath her chin._

_There's a saddle on the fence nearby, and as I haul it over her back, another stab of pain shoots from my shoulder to my chest, and I cry out. The horse startles at my cry, but I hold onto the bridle._

_Hey! I call to the boy. Hey! Help me! I gesture to the buckles on the saddle._

_I never thought I would expend so much energy getting onto a horse, but I am tired. I am so tired. The boy jumps up, and he's small enough to fit between my legs. Maker… I am scrawny in this saddle, too. I had no idea._

_I pull on the reins, leading the horse around, but once we get out of the dust, the world flattens out into too many choices: which way to go? There is no road. No path. There are tents and tables and fire pits, but beyond the campgrounds for the guards, there is only flat expanse in every direction._

_Just go! the boy screams, looking behind us._

_I glance back to see two guards emerging from the dust, and they've figured out that we are stealing their horse. I kick my feet into the mare's ribs, and she lurches into motion, bouncing all of us up and down in the most painful gallop of our lives. We don't make it nearly as far as we need to before we notice that we have a pursuer. One of the guards must have found a horse or something, and he is sprinting behind us, gaining ground. His horse is stronger, probably less afraid, and isn't carrying two people on its back. I kick the mare again, but while going faster is necessary, it is also torture. My shoulder sends stabbing pain down my side with every bounce. It's just physical pain, I tell myself. It's preferable to being dead, which is what chases us._

_I was hoping to ride for a long time, hoping that guard would give up and turn back, but he apparently has a bow. The arrow sinks into the mare's hind leg and she throws her head back in wailing agony, stumbling over her long limbs, crashing forward into the dirt, and the boy and I go flying. I tuck, trying to protect my ailing shoulder, rolling over and over until I come to an abrupt stop. Somehow, the lack of movement makes my shoulder throb worse._

_A flash of yellow crosses my eyes, and a stinging pain that envelopes my entire body follows. The guard has thrown a stinging potion at me, and quite suddenly, I can't move._ No! This can't be how it ends! Move, damn it! _I feel the potion start to wear off – its effects are really short – and as I start to regain small movement in my limbs, I hear crackles, boots over rock. I manage to turn over, wincing and cringing, to see the point-end of an arrow a foot from my nose._

_I have been very angry at the Maker for a long time. I have felt forsaken, abandoned, cursed, but never in my short life did I think he would send me into Andraste's eternal embrace this way. Never did I think I would die in the dirt, my life ended by a coward, by a rapist, by a slaver. But here I am, weakened by circumstance, and thinking about prayer. Does he even listen? Does he ever care? If he did, would I even be here?_

_But it's not the Maker who shields me, because when the guard grunts, swearing, the top of the boy's head bobs from over the man's shoulder. He's jumped onto the man's back, clinging to him like a monkey. I blink a few times before I realize what's happening, but when I do, I spring into stiff motion, the potion hindering me, but I still launch myself at him, wrapping my good arm around his waist, and the three of us tumble to the hot, rocky earth, landing hard._ My shoulder, oh! Andraste preserve me, my shoulder! _He fumbles for the knife on his hip, but my hands reach the hilt first, and for a moment we both pull in opposite directions, the pain in my shoulder seems like a faint memory now as I give a primal yell, calling for the strength to overpower this man. The guard cries out, too, but he arches his back and I look up to see the little boy's arms snaked around the man's head, those little fingers pressing into the man's eyes. His momentary pause gives me the just the opportunity I need to wrest the knife free, flip it around in my grip, and thrust the blade into his belly._

_It's sharp. It slices cleanly through the thick leather, through his skin and into his thick flesh. A wellspring of deep red liquid bubbles out from his gut, hot around my hand, and his breath hitches, small gurgles escaping between his grunts. His hands fumble around mine, both of which still grasp the hilt until his grip slowly loosens. As he's dying, the pain in my shoulder returns, screaming from my exertions, and it feels like it's on fire from the inside. The guard's arms eventually go slack, and he slumps down, the last of his life pooling beneath him. The little boy starts to cry._

_I stare at the slaver for a long moment. He stares back at me. We're both breathless in our individual pain, but this is the way it had to be. This is what we both had to do. This is the business of killing each other._

_When I was training for this, they never told me the kind of sounds I would hear as I delivered men into the hands of death. Breaking bones sound like wood splitting, tearing muscles sound like fabric ripping, and the sound of a sword cutting into flesh sounds like nothing._

_The man's eyes roll around in his skull, his gaze drifting to the sky as his soft grunts and jagged breaths travel out in the ether. He isn't a good man. His name is Emilio, and he was born in a fishing village. His parents died from some plague, and he was sent to an orphanage at the age of seven where he was recruited by the Crows. He jumped at the opportunity, spending his formative years learning to kill people, to rape women, and to steal from the rich and the poor alike. His only ambition was to satiate his immediate desires. He lived a life without meaning or honor, and now he will die while a small boy and I watch him in disgust._

_I feel sick to my stomach. It surprises me how easy it is to kill a man. The first time I ever killed someone was in the Circle Tower – the night I left Starkhaven. I had killed a mage as she tried to flee. She threw several juts of ice at me, and I screamed at her to stop, but when she lunged for me, her staff pointed outwards, I had reacted with a warrior's instinct and sliced my sword right through her belly. Just like I did with this man. One-Cut. Because that's all it took._

_I am haunted by her face in my dreams. Her mouth formed an open and bloody question, naïve in its simplicity but I had no answer. After she died, I thought I was going to be sick then, too. But I wasn't. Keis put her hand on my shoulder and said, We need to move. And so I stood up. And we did. I killed a woman and then I stood up and left her body there._

_It's a prank, this life; it's a sick joke played upon us all by the Maker himself. We are his pieces, this is his chessboard, and he sits in the center of Heaven staring at his creation, indifferent, and waiting for the pieces to move, to delight and entertain him. Well, my Maker, here is your entertainment: the still-warm corpse right in front of me._

_I can't help it. Right in front of this little boy and a dead man, I can feel the hot tears sting my eyes, drawing lines down my dirty face. Is this what it takes? Is this what I have to give? I just want to go home. I just want to go home._

_I want to see my mother and father and Goran. I want to see Ari and Flora, and Ruxty. Maybe even Sebastian. But most of all, I want to see my beautiful Sammie._

_I want to show her the beautiful plains of the Dales, where the lake waters are so still, you could swear you were looking at two skies. I want to take her to the shores of Antiva, where if you look out, there is nothing on the horizon but where the sea meets the water. I want to show her the night sky out in the middle of nowhere, where the stars are so bright and clustered together so densely, there could be no person capable of counting them all. I want to run my hand down her arm where that mercenary cut her, and wipe it away clean._

_The little boy crouches next to me, asking tentatively, Are you okay?_

_Here I am, injured, in the middle of nowhere, and crying. With a little boy. What am I going to do?_

_After a moment, both of us realize that I haven't answered his question, and he places a tiny hand on my hurt shoulder. I finally speak, saying Don't or something like, but then that strange sensation tickles through me again._

_What are—? I don't need to finish the sentence. I know what's he's doing. He's pouring healing magic into me. Just as he did in the quarry when I first hurt my shoulder. He's a mage._

_As soon as I realize it, I push him away from me, and he stumbles backwards in the dirt. Oh, Andraste in the heavens, this is another of the Maker's cruel jokes isn't it?_

_Don't touch me, I yell reactively. Get back!_

_I stare at him, thinking about all those times I prayed to Andraste and the Maker to watch over me, to protect me in the swamp and the Dales and the quarry. During all of those horrors that I witnessed, the beatings, the slavers, the tortures, how I prayed to them to get me through it. I start to wonder if any of it, ever, was their doing, or was it me? Did I get myself through that? Were they ever watching over me? Was I a fool to think that they were? What kind of Maker would free me from the swamps only to deliver me into the hands of slavers? Who would free me from slavers, but put me in the company of a little mage boy?_

_I won't hurt you, the boy whimpers through his sobs, crying with renewed enthusiasm._

_You're a mage, I say, trying to still my shaking hands. I try to scoot away from him, and find that my shoulder hurts a lot less than it used to._

_Please! He wails, drawing out the word into a plea._

_He breaks down, his shoulders shaking and his face scrunched up, turning red. I have never seen a more pathetic creature in all my life. His watery voice is torture, but he's a mage! A mage! He could be a demon! Another damned demon, and I can't do this again! Don't make me do this again! Is it my fate to die at the hands of a demon? Did the dragon in the swamp cheat me out of the death that I was supposed to have? Is that why the Maker has led this little boy to me? To kill me? But between his emaciated frame and his utter sorrow, I can't help the feelings that course through me: guilt, compassion, resignation._

_Stop crying, I say, holding my hand out. Stop crying. Come on._

_He tries to catch his breath. His howling has given him hiccups and I am sure he has cried all the water out of his body. If a demon doesn't claim him, I'm sure dehydration will. I want to run away, leaving him here because he's not my problem, but lying adjacent to the guilt of leaving a boy alone in the middle of nowhere near a slaver camp is my fear that he isn't really human. That he's something much worse._

_After a moment, he lifts his eyes to meet mine. Those eyes… they give me a shiver, and we're in a desert. It's so hot, the ground is likely burning our legs._

_How do I know you're not maleficar? I ask him warily, and he seems confused by the word. I clarify, Are you a blood mage? Do you use your own blood in magic?_

_No, he promises earnestly._

_But I insist and ask, How do I know?_

_I'm not! he says. He swallows hard, licks his lips, and blinks. He's trying to calm down._

_I have no idea what a possessed mage looks like. I have never seen one. At least, I can't remember ever seeing one. Maybe if I get him to talk, I'll see something, recognize a sign or something. Maybe it's because of his eyes, which are terrible, but I don't like looking at him._

_What's your name? I ask._

_Liam, I say. We're out in the open, and that's bad._

_He nods, asking, Where are we going?_

We _. I am so screwed._

_I finally get a look around. Which way to go? I have no idea where we are, but the tracks in the dirt suggest where we came from. The guard's horse is milling about near the mare, who is whining pathetically on the ground. Damn it, the horse. I forgot about her. But I get an idea. Maybe if I watch him do some magic, I'll be able to see if he uses his blood. It's a weak test, but it's all I've got._

_Can you help the horse? I ask. I mean for him to heal her._

_Yes, he says. But… I feel tired._

_He's weak. He must not have much energy left for healing, but whatever he has will have to do._

_I approach the male horse, which is standing uncertainly, as if waiting for someone to ride him, and grab his reins. Once I get close to the mare, I turn to Liam._

_I say, When I pull out the arrow, you need to heal her leg, okay? This horse – I point to the male horse – might get scared so I will have to keep him from running away. But you need to keep your hands on her leg. Got it?_

_He nods, his face full of determination. I kneel down on one knee, one hand on the reins of the male horse, the other hand wrapped around the shaft of the arrow. He leans down too, both of his tiny hands on the horse's leg where the shaft is sticking out from her flesh. Her brown coat is matted with blood, which is now caked on Liam's hands._

_I say, Hold her leg down. I'm going to pull pretty hard. Ready?_

_He gives a quick nod, and then I yank, hard and fast and the suctioning sound that the arrow makes as it leaves her leg is yet another sound that they never tell you about. The mare lets loose a shriek and the stud rears wildly. I grasp his reins with both hands, working very hard to keep him under control, but when I finally turn around, the boy is still crouched by the mare, and she is visibly relaxed._

_Did it work? I ask, still stumbling around, trying to pull the stud into submission._

_Yep, he says, beaming at me._

_Something changes in his eyes. They change color. They become bright, filled with light and hope and, in turn, I am filled with fascination and warmth. I can't help it; I laugh. It's a joyful laugh, washed with relief and optimism. After a moment, I calm down and regain my faculties. My mood changed so suddenly. It felt so normal. So natural. The realization frightens me. It's his eyes._

_My voice is quiet when I ask him, How do you do that? How did the guards not know what you are?_

_His smile falters, and he says, I don't know._

_I remember the feeling I used to get – still get, whenever he looks at me. Even now; those creepy eyes and that feeling of dread, and how every person in that camp seemed to want to crawl away from him. He infects others with his feelings… that's an odd talent to have._

_The horse I have worked to control is now calm, but I never look away from the boy when I ask, Did you cause the explosion at the mine?_

_He doesn't answer audibly, but he doesn't need to. Every other part of his body answers for him. Even under his scrapes and bruises and burns, his body is screaming a resounding_ Yes _._

_I blow through my lips, running a hand over my face and looking around us at the endless expanse in every direction, and then I look back to him and give him a small nod, saying, Thanks._

_He lets out a giggle, small and hopeful. It strikes me how innocent he is. He is so young, new to the world and all the horrors that it can produce, but he's already seen so much of that. I wonder how that has shaped him, how that's damaged him._

_I ask, Can you ride her by yourself?_

_He looks down to the horse, and she blusters through her lips, too. He says, I think so._

_I steer the horses to each other, removing my tunic from her face and helping her up. We are fortunate that we have both of them, but I don't know if I can keep us alive. All four of us need water. We need food. We need shelter from the blistering sun._

_I take what I can from the dead guard; his sword, bow, arrows, one stinging potion, belt and jacket, shoes, and the leathers and tunic that I slashed through. I don't like wearing a dead man's clothes, let alone where the bloodstains are still fresh, but we need them to survive. I let the boy have my tunic, belting it at the waist, and I wear the bloody one, strapping on the leathers, too. I also give him the bow. He can't be any worse at it than me. The guard had no pack, no canteen, no pouches or dried beef. He was leaving the camp to chase us down – he only grabbed his weapons. Hopefully, we can ride fast enough to find some shade, escape the wide-open desert and into a forest or the mountains, somewhere where we can find cover._

_I hope this isn't a stupid decision, teaming up with a little boy – and a mage at that. I hope that I can keep us both alive. I hope that I can defend us both from the evils of the world where I have thus far failed. Another part of me is cursing myself for my own stupidity, because this can't possibly end well. But he's already saved me. Twice. Aside from that, I cannot in good conscience abandon a small boy out here. I just can’t._

_He may be a demon, he may not be. We have the rest of the journey to find that out, and hopefully this time, we can avoid little Antivan hermits and demented apostates, and stay off of well-traveled paths. I will be wary of people and only when I am in sight of Starkhaven's golden gates, which tower above the city's walls like beacons of hope, will I allow myself to relax. But until then, I must tread carefully._

_We'll either make it or we won't. And it won't be the Maker that guides us. It'll be me._


	31. 9:34 Dragon, Late Autumn

**9:34 Dragon, Late Autumn**

"When he first assumed the title, His Highness, Prince Thayvian Vael, came to me to ask about integrity. He asked me about how best to honor his oath as prince." Grand Cleric Francesca pulled out a thick book. "I read to him a passage from Divine Renata I's sermons. I will read it to you now."

As the sounds of thick raindrops pelted the chantry's roof, Francesca cracked open the old tome and brought a pair of tiny spectacles up to just above her nose. The musky scent of wet wood saturated everything, even the walls of the building. Winter would arrive soon, and with that, Samantha thought, a long string of cold, dark nights where Beenie would be alone. If he lived.

" _The weakness of mortal will is the great failing of all the Maker's children. We trade our honor as if it is the cheapest of currency. We do not understand what integrity is or what it is truly worth. From this ignorance, original sin was born_."

The images that came to Samantha in the dreamland were confusing: an endless night in bed with Corbinian, and while the dream had stirred feelings of complete and absolute bliss, something on the edge of the dreamscape felt false. It was as if she had been looking through a mirror mounted on the inside of her eyelids, watching her life happen around her. And then suddenly, as if that endless night had abruptly ended, the image shifting to Corbinian thrusting his sword through the stomach of a stranger. There was giddy childish laughter. There was darkness. Everything else was too fuzzy to recall.

" _At some time, each of us has thought,_ What does it matter if I keep hold of my integrity? I am but one mortal. I am powerless _. How blind we all are! The virtue of a single slave destroyed the Tevinter Imperium. The dishonor of one man drove the Maker from our sight. I tell you truly, nothing but the integrity of our hearts will win the love of the Maker back to us. It is all the power we shall ever possess to change this world for good or ill_."

And according to Keis, it was all a lie. A trick by a demon who shared in their pleasure, a thought that scratched at Samantha's skin with disgust. Anyone else and she might not have believed them straight away, but it was Keis. Keis who never lied, who never had to, who recounted her own experience to Samantha in private with a healer's tact; truths without adjectives.

Samantha had wanted so badly to remember, but came out of the experience with only fragments. Keis said that Corbinian had walked away _with_ the demon. As confusing as that was, at least he was alive, Samantha thought. Or he had been. The question of whether he still lived haunted her, turning her heart into his ghost, bleeding his name with every beat.

Francesca closed the book, removing her tiny spectacles and placing them neatly on the podium. "Her grace, the Divine Renata, warned us that letting go of our integrity spoils Andraste's well, for she drinks from our hearts. We cannot fill our hearts with hatred, with selfishness, and with sin."

There were no exceptions to breaking the Oath of Starkhaven in the history of the city. Thousands of women and men had taken the Oath back during Andraste's Exalted Marches and the Second and Fourth Blights. Corbinian had been the first Havener to speak the words in more than two hundred years, and the first royal in five hundred years, since the Chantry in Orlais had declared an Exalted March against the Tevinter Imperium. Then, Starkhaven's own Nyrian Vael, the third cousin to the Prince of Starkhaven, and fourteenth in line of succession, took the Oath and vowed to defend Starkhaven should the Imperium come through.

Of course, they didn't, and he died an old man.

"It was not so long ago that darkness blanketed _our_ streets," the Grand Cleric referred to the night the Circle Tower was destroyed. "We all know how dark it can get before His light shines through. I told Prince Thayvian that we must never give into despair because when one is swallowed by shadows, out of that darkness, hope can light the way." She then gazed down at Goran.

Samantha knew, after learning the truth, that there was hope, but she couldn't look for it. Out in that field where she had woken up, she had been so certain Corbinian was alive and utterly heartbroken when they told her he was gone. Could she imagine he was alive again or would that only lead to bitter disappointment? So, instead, she kept her gaze fixed on the Grand Cleric, her ears tuned to the hard rain falling on the roof, and she imagined that it was going to wash away all that summer warmth, saturating everything with its relentless cold. And yet, all through the coming winter, Samantha knew it would be her heart that shook.

"Hope gives us the courage to move forward, to change our circumstances for the better, but changing the world isn't simply a matter of integrity." Francesca was still staring at Goran, almost like she was speaking to him alone. "It's about heart as well. These are gifts from the Maker, proof that we are worthy of His return. We strive to better ourselves and the world, to make it as we see fit, but it's not our world to make. It's His. Prince Thayvian worried about his oath to Starkhaven, but in honoring his oath to the Maker – that oath to which we are all bound – he honored every other oath he made."

Heart. Integrity. Words which, absent of action, had no meaning.

If Corbinian had let Samantha die to honor his Oath to Starkhaven, he would have violated his own integrity. His own heart. Samantha felt that no oath should demand that.

Goran stared up at the Grand Cleric, his face a bit too open in his expression as he drank in every word she said. He hadn't said anything to Samantha, but she knew that Goran had received counsel from Francesca about Corbinian. About how he should proceed as a brother, as a Vael, and as prince. She had counseled him as she had counseled in his uncle, Prince Thayvian.

Francesca laced her fingers together on the podium. "I've always thought that the Maker placed the Vaels here as Starkhaven's guardians. But they are also Starkhaven's children. We loved them as they loved us. We remember them, and honor their loss on this third anniversary of their passing."

_Vaels don't die. Our shadow hangs over everything. Even when we're not here._

The dream proved that Corbinian had survived the night of the Circle Tower's destruction. The armor plate from Ansburg could have come loose any time after that. But none of that proved that Corbinian was alive still. Probably originating in Ansburg, the rumors of his survival traveled the length of the Minanter, and Samantha had been worried about the reaction of Starkhaven's nobles. But, perhaps unsurprisingly, Haveners laughed them away, as if the rumors were supernatural tales circulated amongst peasants. Urban legends the effete could not afford to entertain lest their sophisticated reputations suffer.

Goran had given no response, either. But he was Prince, and princes didn't respond to rumors.

He had taken action, however. The citizens of Starkhaven didn't ask him directly, but Samantha heard the rumblings during the season's parties. The polite yet slightly accusatory comments about the strange new titles within the Royal Guard. About the organized and well-stocked teams that spent hours outside the city gates on _training exercises_. And about the distant places those well-trained teams were sent. To the Green Dales which were ruled by roving packs of wild children. To the haunted swamps ruled by witches and unnatural darkness. To the western desert wasteland peppered with dragon lizards, the only creatures capable of surviving in the dry heat.

Months went by with no word from these envoys, and as time that passed, the growing fear that they would never return bristled the citizenry. The teams were assembled from the City and Royal Guard, men and women who were children of commoners and peasants, who accused the prince of exploiting Starkhaven’s resources to chase after his family's ghosts. They called his envoys Ghost Chasers. Even those nobles who had been too important to be bothered with the lower classes were suddenly riled by their unfortunate disappearance. Samantha assumed their disapproval was merely a popular topic of conversation, and not because they actually cared.

"We miss them," Francesca said earnestly. "We pray for the Maker to keep them at His side, and ask Andraste to watch over the ones we have left."

On these final words, Francesca bowed her head and the choir began to sing. Arielle was in the choir now, and someone had worked some kind of miracle cleaning her up. She looked almost normal.

Samantha glanced at Goran, who had his eyes closed, his lips moving to the words of the song.

Would Goran fail to live up to the seat's expectations, and what it would mean if the people rejected him outright; who would claim his seat? Sebastian? Samantha had thought about him often in the last few months, wondering how he would react to the news that Corbinian might be alive. Wondering if he would still return, whether or not he should, and hoping that they would never need to speak of it. Was his arrogance better than Goran's optimism? Samantha didn't know, but then again, she knew how pretentious everyone was. If Lord Garrity thought having a bastard King of Ferelden was bad, he certainly wouldn't accept an exiled prince. Surely, he wasn't the only one.

Samantha closed her eyes, but it wasn't the song that moved her. It was the golden armor plate that gleamed with tangible hope. She could feel its presence even though the finely crafted plate was back at the palace. She imagined it attached to his arm, his smile reflected in the metal, and thought surely, surely, he _must_ still be out there.

She decided that as soon as she was back at the palace, she would rush to Goran's private study, lift the box of glass from the display, and cradle the warm metal in her hands. Warm from magic, but she would pretend that it was warm from Corbinian. Warmth transferred. Preserved.

She had written to Flora twice since it had arrived, but she couldn't tell Flora that she spent most of her time in Goran's study just to be near it. As though it were still attached to Corbinian's arm. As though any moment that she wasn't near it, Corbinian was alone. She couldn't tell Flora about the Margrave's letter or about her and Keis' dream. She couldn't say anything, because Goran had ordered her not to. He wanted her to wait until he had proof.

So, instead of writing about all that consumed her thoughts, Samantha wrote about Goran. She recounted everything that he had done to protect her and Sebastian. How he had worked with the Chantry and the Templars to rebuild the Circle Tower. How he tried to save the Harimann family while maneuvering around Johane. Sebastian may have shot the arrow, but it was Goran who made that arrow's true flight possible. How he secretly dispatched the man named Flint and drove his mercenaries from Starkhaven. How he had managed to secure the throne of Starkhaven – she had only been vaguely aware of some power grabs, but the Starkhaven Council had always backed Goran. How he sent the nurse with the painting – which Flora never found. She told Flora about his kindness, his thoughtfulness, his obliviousness and the all the little things that they had missed over the years. Her friend had a hard time believing it, and Ruxton thought Samantha was making it up.

When the choir finished, both Goran and Samantha lifted themselves wearily from the pew, but just as they were walking through the aisles towards the exit, a man dressed in heavy armor with the Templar's sword etched into the chestpiece stepped in their way. Maybe in his late forties and disarmingly handsome, he was grinning at Samantha. Lines ran from his deep-set eyes like they couldn't get far enough away.

He was the Knight Commander of Starkhaven.

"Your Highness." He bowed deeply. He was, like many Orlesians, stiff in formality with a velvety voice. "A word?"

"Is something wrong?" Goran tugged at his collar; he only wore the long formal jacket of the prince to service and he was always anxious to remove it when they left.

"In a manner of speaking… No." The Knight Commander's accent made him sound friendly. "But perhaps we should speak away from the ears of the masses."

Goran looked behind him, and almost comically the nobles of Starkhaven burst into movement as though they had been moving all along. Samantha pressed her lips together to hide her smile.

"Perhaps we could walk together." The Knight Commander shifted his gaze back to Samantha and offered another warm smile. "I don't believe I've had the pleasure…?"

"This is Lady Samantha Mayweather." Goran introduced her.

"Ahh, yes." He leaned down to kiss her hand, keeping his rock-hard eyes on hers. "A pleasure to meet you, my lady. I have heard many good things about you, and might I add that blue is truly your color. It suits you completely."

She was wearing her favorite autumn coat, which was pale blue. Something in the way he spoke about it diminished her love for it. She smiled back too-sweetly and spoke to him through her teeth. "You should see me in yellow, messere."

"Please, call me Rayce." His smile faded as he stood back up, extending his elbow.

She hesitated for the briefest of moments before she took it – it would have been rude not to – because she didn’t want to be close to this man. The way he stared at her was deliberating intimidating, but there was something else there, too. Samantha wasn't sure what it was, but it felt like a test of some kind.

Emerging into the wet world, two small boys appeared behind them with large umbrellas, opening them up and lifting them over their heads. The Knight Commander joined the trio under the shelter from the rain as they walked.

The Knight Commander surveyed the courtyard outside the chantry. "Usually, there are fewer people on the path after service on such a day as this."

"Usually the Knight Commander and the prince don't take walks together after service." Samantha forced the corners of her mouth up when he looked over.

"Touché," he said, offering what sounded like a genuine laugh, and the lines of his face grew deep with secrets.

Keis gave Samantha a funny look but Goran was trying to act normal, uncomfortably watching the people who were watching them when he said, "Let's go to the palace."

"An excellent suggestion." The Knight Commander agreed.

As she looked away; his intense gaze settled into her stomach heavily. This was the man who was still detaining the post, the man who was in charge of throwing Innley in that dungeon, the man whose eyes betrayed an insatiable hunger underneath that veneer of Orlesian charm. To top it off, he wanted her to address him informally as though they were friends. Samantha didn't care about the test anymore.

"The mages seem to be adjusting to their new accommodations," the Knight Commander said; this must have been his idea of small talk.

"Mm," Goran hummed; he didn't do well at small talk.

"Have the dungeons been used yet?" Samantha asked flatly, as though she were inquiring about the weather.

The Knight Commander just smiled roguishly. "Not yet, but I can arrange for a tour if you like. Perhaps you'd like to see the new set of chains that we had nailed to the walls last week."

Samantha was certain that her flush was giving away her hatred. In her periphery, she caught Keis' usually fear-inducing glare, but paid it no mind as she focused on the Knight Commander. "I hear iron vices work much better. You might reduce the amount of time necessary for detention if you increase the cruelty of your methods."

"A fine point." He seemed amused. "But what good is a mage who can't use her hands?"

"I wasn't aware mages were useful anymore," she purred in sarcasm. "My apologies."

"Ah, yes! But every tool has its purpose."

"Tools?" Goran rejoined the conversation. "Mages aren't tools, they're people."

The Knight Commander chuckled. "You hear that, Lady Samantha? High Royal Highness has declared that vessels for demons are people."

"Really, Goran." Samantha turned to the prince, but silently lamented his deaf-ear for sarcasm, knowing that he wouldn't comprehend her true meaning. "Next you're going to suggest that we send emissaries into the Fade to determine voting rights."

"What?" Goran looked perplexed as expected; this was why everyone thought he was so dim.

"We bear as much blame for their plight." The Knight Commander leaned down to speak softly into her ear. "But I think we've both given demons a voice too often, wouldn't you agree?"

He was speaking of Innley, amused rather than bothered by her attempts at pointing out the blatant cruelty of those who were sworn to protect! Infuriated, Samantha fought to keep her hands from clenching. She wanted to be rid of this man. There was cruelty in his voice, shameless in its vulgarity and simply having his hands on her, no matter that they were sheathed in gloves, felt dirty. She didn't say another word until they reached the palace when she was finally able to extricate herself from his grasp. Goran shrugged off his coat as though he had no idea what was going on, and Keis looked upon Samantha disapprovingly. The Knight Commander just continued on with that small smile that threatened to ruin his fine Orlesian features.

A group of servants appeared with new shoes for Goran and Samantha to replace their wet ones, and as Samantha pulled off her gloves one finger at a time, she glared at The Knight Commander; up until that very moment, she had never felt the desire to physically injure someone.

Goran led them into the sitting room where Ser Rayce finally noticed Keis. "Is she going to stay?"

"Of course she is," Samantha insisted defiantly.

The Knight Commander crossed his arms, thoroughly amused. "You don't like me."

"I don't know you, ser." Samantha said stiffly, accepting a glass of wine from a servant's tray.

He waved away the servant, declining any spirits. "I dare say that if you did, you would change your mind."

"What's the news?" Goran asked the Knight Commander, seemingly wanting to steer the conversation away from things that confused him.

"Your Highness." The man bowed. "Thank you for inviting me in. I have news from Kirkwall."

Samantha's gaze snapped up to his again, and he glanced over towards her, apparently aware he’d caught her interest. She tried to pretend otherwise, but it was too late.

"I received a letter from Meredith Stannard, the Knight Commander of Kirkwall. She sent it by rider."

Goran set down his glass. "By rider? What was so urgent?"

"The Viscount of Kirkwall is dead."

The Prince of Starkhaven stood frozen for a moment, unblinkingly processing this information until he breathed out in shock. "Marlowe is dead?"

"It was the Qunari. They chopped off his head and tried to seize the city."

Samantha brought her hands to her mouth in shock, and she heard the clink of Keis' armor as the woman shifted behind her.

"Tried?" Keis asked.

"Yes." He nodded grimly. "Tried and failed. Stopped by Kirkwall's new Champion." His thick Orlesian accent made the word sound soft, but there was nothing soft about a Champion.

The naming of a Champion by a city was unique to the Free Marches, so given to any woman or man who distinguished themselves by deed. It was not always a mark of honor, either, as many Champions were feared more than they were loved. In the history of the Free Marches, there had only been two other Champions named: the Champions of Starkhaven and Tantervale. Starkhaven's champion had been distinguished during the age of the Fourth Blight, eventually participating in the Battle of Ayesleigh where the elven Grey Warden Garahel slew the Archdemon.

"Andraste's breath…" Goran whispered, finally blinking.

"Indeed." The Knight Commander shook his head, as though he didn't believe what he was about to say. "She says the Champion defeated the Qunari Arishok in single combat, rescued the city from the Qunari siege, and then convinced the rest of them to leave the city willingly, without much citizen blood spilled."

His words hung in the air like an unfinished sentence, and Samantha had a flash of Flora, hiding in her estate perhaps, trying to endure yet another tragedy while the pieces of her own broken home still lay strewn about the floor.

Everyone knew of the Qunari; they had been at war with Tevinter Imperium for three hundred years and had attempted to conquer every city in the Free Marches at least once. They were a warlike race, a triumvirate of war, craft, and honor, the latter was the most influential. Called the Qun, their honor system heralded all as equals while denying individuality. If the Arishok – the leader of the military – insisted that they kill everyone inside a city as demanded by their Qun, then it was miraculous that someone actually managed to get them to halt their tirade and leave by choice!

"How…?" Goran didn't seem to believe it either.

"I don't have the details, but from what Meredith says, this new Champion is a curious sort. Some Fereldan refugee that goes by the name of Hawke."

"Hawke?" Samantha blurted out the name in familiarity and three pairs of eyes turned to her.

Sebastian's letter came back to her: _I asked for help from the Fereldan refugee that I hired to hunt down the Flint Mercenary Company, a colorful character named Hawke. It turned out to be a wise decision._ For a fleeting moment, a jolt of panic named Sebastian shot up her throat, and there was no quenching the overwhelming thirst for news of his condition: had he participated in this battle, did he have a hand in the events leading up to the confrontation with the Arishok, and perhaps most importantly, _was he safe_? Certain that she had turned several shades of red, Samantha tried to still her racing thoughts, but the others had already seen her flush.

"You know this Hawke?" The Knight Commander crossed his arms again.

Samantha swallowed hard, shaking her head. "No." It wasn't a lie, necessarily.

"Really."

"It's… an interesting name."

"Indeed." He looked amused again before turning back to the prince. "Meredith has taken up a position as Regent until a viscount can be named. You'll want to write a letter to her, I assume."

"Right." Goran looked lost. "I guess I should do that."

Without being able to help it, Samantha's mind wandered away from the room and the intimidating Orlesian Knight Commander. Her mind drifted to her friends, Flora, Ruxton, and, of course, Sebastian. To what could have happened that prompted the Qunari to attempt a takeover. To known associates of Sebastian's that had defeated them. _Sebastian_. _Flora._

There was movement and talking, but Samantha couldn't hear anything, consumed by her dread and taken out of her head only when the Knight Commander's callused fingers cradled hers. His accent hissed out sounds of farewell as he brought her knuckles to his lips. When she met his gaze again, she nearly startled at those hardened eyes, contradicted by his pleasant expression.

The world was changing yet again, and Samantha struggled to understand what the Maker's intentions for His children were. If, as Francesca had said earlier that day, that everyone was responsible for shaping His world, how could it be possible to _not_ create one of chaos? Of so many lives changed in an instant at another's whim. How saving everyone is never possible when mad people take control. Of a world that was filled with so many who were so fanatical and how ineffective and temporary all attempts at justice really were.

Who was this absentee father, and what the point of pleasing him?


	32. 9:35 Dragon, Winter

**9:35 Dragon, Winter**

_The Hundred Pillars are aptly named. The terrain is steep, jagged, and most paths lead to dead ends, often plateaus with vertical drop-offs. And it's cold. Bitterly, menacingly, deathly cold. My knees nearly touch my chest as lift them up and down, trudging shin-deep through snow that feels more like sand, powdery on top but dense beneath. The wind is a blustery hell, stinging my cheeks into a bright pink and propping me up as I slosh through. I'm pitched so far forward that it seems like I should fall, but it's like there's a river of air streaming through these mountains. Like if I went over a cliff, the wind would simply hold me up like a boat in water._

_Liam's fur-bundled hands are permanently attached to the rope that I've tied about my waist, his trek a little easier as he follows the path that I am plowing through the mountain's terrain. Whenever I feel the rope go taut, I look back to see if he's collapsed, and when that happens, I carry him. We are both so tired that sometimes I can't believe we're still moving._

_We've hiked deep into this mountain range mostly on foot because we had to let the horses free a month ago. They would never have survived this place. Wedged between Antiva and Tevinter, it now seems clear to me how these two nations have avoided each other; the mountains are not only a natural barrier, but an extremely effective one. Three months into our journey and I've started to wonder if there's a way out._

_I'm a little surprised that he's stuck with me this long, even after my decisions to take us into the mountains. But he is young, terrified, and he watched me kill a man. He asked me about my adventures once – he thought I was some adventuring swordarm! Like I would choose to live like this! I may be strong and able to find my way in the world, mostly thanks to my Pentaghast cousins, but I've never had to navigate_ this _part of the world. I told him that I am actually just a regular guy trying to get home. He's seen his share of horrible things, but I don't want to add to that, and so I tell him that I had to leave my home to save a friend, but I always intended to return. It's hard to have a conversation with a child, because children always want to know why – why, why, why? – and, aside from the horrible things that have happened, I don't think the details of my life are good to share. He doesn't need to know any more than that. Those kinds of things could only get us in trouble should the wrong people find us. Of course, he doesn't buy it. He still thinks I'm some Champion, some Cavalier, some super-human hero. Maybe I'm his hero. Maybe I'm okay with that._

_I crane my neck back as far as it will go, which isn't that far considering all the fur that I have wrapped around me, and I squint into the biting wind to stare at the stone-grey ceiling of the world. The stone mountains blend in with the overcast sky, and it would look like a long endless void if not for the menacing grey shadow that stretches into the horizon. The clouds are swirling, and snow is beginning to pelt us again – I swear, this is the only place in the world where snow falls like rain. I've been dreading this moment, but we have no choice now; we have to stop traveling and find suitable shelter._

_My feet are round mounds of fur and animals skins, and yet I haven't felt my toes in hours. My body is so cold that I don't feel cold anymore. I think the snow has soaked through my furs, because I can feel the leather jerkin that I took off the dead slaver's body stiffening up. I want to keep moving, and maybe I would, but I'm not really getting anywhere, and besides that... I have Liam to think about now._

_Liam, I say, but I can't hear my own voice for the blustery conditions._

_I look over my shoulder, and the furry skins of the dead animals that we've lived on envelope his entire body, only revealing his little round face. I yell his name this time, stepping back to grab him by the patchwork-fur coat. With chattering teeth and a bright red nose, he looks up to me._

_It infects me like a sickness, rolling over my shoulders and settling into my stomach. It's so heavy, so thick... My eyelids droop with the weight of responsibility and the journey ahead. Thoughts of survival are the fireflies in my periphery, taking up space in the blackness that splotches across my field of vision. I'm so cold. I'm so hungry. We're going to die out here with the wind in our ears and the snow in our shoes._

_It takes all the energy I have to close my eyes and look away. I really don't like looking at him._

_Sorry, he whines in complete misery._

_This has become our custom. I avoid eye contact and he apologizes. He can't control this thing of his, though he knows exactly how he affects me – how he affects nearly everyone. But I don't blame him. He can't help it. It's not his fault. I tell myself that a lot._

_I have to yell for Liam to hear me. I tell him that we need to find shelter, and he seems confused. I point to the sky and the swirling mass of clouds in the distance, and explain that there's a storm coming and that we won't survive it out in the open. We may need to stay for a month or more until winter passes._

_He just nods to me in resignation. He's so miserable; I can feel it without looking at him. He's a mage, a killing machine, and at any moment he could give himself away to a demon to escape this frostbitten hell, but he's also just a little boy. And I hate to admit this, but I need him. When we hunt, he makes our prey feel calm and I don't have to work as hard to bring them down, which is both good and bad. I rely on him too much, and consequently I am not as strong as I need to be. But he relies on me, too. As scared of the world as he is, sometimes I think he is scared of himself even more. I am sure the fear in my eyes every time I look at him doesn't help. If he gets scared enough to consider a demon's offer, I need him to say no._

_But if I'm being honest, that's not all of it. I know that mages are dangerous – I know it. But... he's just a boy. If something happens to me, he could die. I don't want him to die._

_Surprisingly, it's not that tough to find shelter. There are natural alcoves everywhere. The rock of these mountains juts upwards as though offended by the empty space, but the ice has created pockets everywhere. The only real issue is making sure the caves are uninhabited. The first cave is home to some kind of large bird that squawks at us in irritation, trying to peck our limbs away and we scramble out, skidding through the snow. The second and third caves are infested with mountain rats, giant rodents half Liam's size that will attack us in the middle of the night, infecting us with disease. No, thanks. Finally, we find something suitable. It's not that big, but that's okay. A small space is actually better – less area to heat._

_Liam rubs his little fingers against some wet wood, and it sparks to life, the flames licking the greyness of the world away. Ahh, blessed warmth. Survival means finding happiness in very small things._

_In an effort to keep us both from freezing, I peel the skins from my body, which I haven't done in many days. I feel like a furry onion. Liam peels back his furs as well, and now I see why he's so cold: his ratty tunic has gotten wet, and it's partially frozen. It cracks when I pull it from his body. Bloody fantastic. We don't have much, but what we do have needs to sustain us, and when you have nothing, losing something as small a tunic is a big deal._

_I pull his body to mine, placing him on the ground between my legs. I am so big compared to him, my legs stretch twice as far as his. He's still shivering, and so I rub his little arms and chest to warm him. I think about how this stirs the blood inside the body. That's how we stay warm, by keeping our blood moving through our veins. But within his blood courses something entirely different from mine, and no matter how hard I try, no matter how badly I want to, I can't not think about how that blood could kill me at any second._

_I wrap the furs around our bodies, and I feel his shivers lessening. Liam doesn't talk much that night, and only stops trembling entirely when he sleeps, his head against my shoulder, his small body curled up to mine. The night takes my consciousness, too, but before that happens, I curse the Maker for forsaking us all. Andraste, you're wasting your breath._

_We arise in the belly of our cave, and I crawl between the enormous teeth-like icicles that have grown around its mouth. When I return with some wet wood, Liam has a pair of cave rats in his lap – he likes animals and as a result, they like him, too. They huddle against his belly, squeaking contentedly in his warmth, but they aren't our friends. They're our breakfast. The last time Liam watched me kill something was when I thrust a knife – the knife that I'm holding – into the guts of a slaver. He hasn't watched since, and though I never force it, someday he'll need to watch. It'll prepare him for the realities of the world. It'll prepare him for what he's capable of. Maybe it'll dissuade him from using his magic to harm others._

_We talk about magic sometimes. I tell him what I learned growing up, which is that magic runs in all families, but most still don't understand it. He tells me what it feels like, which he says is like being tickled and scratched at the same time. He's getting better at controlling his emotions, too. We've been trying to work on shutting them off so that I am not affected at all, but he is a long ways from mastering that. He gets frustrated easily, but is persistent. Maybe he won't succumb to demons after all. Maybe that's just wishful thinking._

_This morning, over the roasted cave rat, for no particular reason, I tell him the story of Halden and Branian:_ the only reason to fear a mage is if the mage fears you. _He listens like he's never heard a story before, like the whole world is waiting for me to finish._

_And then out of the clear blue sky, he says, I was at a Circle once. He rubs his little nose, which is still red from the cold. He adds: I ran away._

_Why? I ask._

_He whispers his reply. They locked me up. They said I would infect others. They said if I couldn't stop it, they would kill me._

_He's talking about his ability. The way he influences the emotions of others based on his own. I think of Innley. I think of Sammie. I think of the Circle. How is my experience with slavers any different than the mages experiences with Templars? Is housing the only difference between the Crows and the Chantry? I look down at the skinned and cooked rodent in my hands, half eaten and turned cold. The world isn't majestic. It isn't beautiful or welcoming. It's a cold mother, distant and preoccupied with itself._

_Then he asks me: Where are we going? Once we are out of the mountains?_

_We. Always with the_ we _stuff. I say, I could take you home. When he shakes his head, a bout of panic slams into my chest, the wind knocked from my lungs. I raise my hands up defensively, gasping his name. Liam! I won't take you anywhere you don't want to go._

_He's a child, emotionally volatile at times and unpredictable at others. It's been a while since I've been around children. I forgot how difficult it can be._

_I say, I'm no Templar. It's not my job to bring rogue apostate children to the Circle. I would never want that job._

_This relaxes him, but I can tell that he's still not entirely convinced. He does bring up an important question, though: What am I going to do with Liam when I get to Starkhaven? As a mage, he's supposed to go to a Circle to learn magic. He's not supposed to be an apostate, and he certainly can't survive the world on his own without turning demented. But I am not his keeper. Ultimately, it's his choice, but it's also my choice whether or not I want to help him get to wherever he decides to go. I know for certain that I hope he doesn't choose Tevinter. Their version of life is completely backwards from the rest of the world. The mages govern themselves – and everyone else – and the Chantry essentially does nothing._

_So, I take a breath, hoping that he doesn't say Tevinter, and ask him where he wants to go. But, of course, he's just a kid and knows nothing about the world. He shrugs his little shoulders and mutters something that sounds like_ I don't know _right before he asks, Can I stay with you?_

_A blanket of hope falls over me, and I can't help wondering if it's from him or if I truly want to take him home with me. I should say no, and not just because a life without magic is less complicated, but because I don't think the people of Starkhaven would be too pleased if I came back home with a little apostate and declared that he was going to live in the palace with the Vaels. That would probably not go over well._

_But I also don't want to make him mad – the last time he got mad was at the slaver camp where he caused some kind of explosion. I wonder if the Circle ever saw him do that. I don't know how he did it, and I don't know what caused it, but I don't want him to think on it, either, just in case the memory invokes the same reaction. I would rather keep all my body parts where they are._

_So, to save his temper, and also maybe to spare his feelings, I don't give him an outright no. Instead I say: I am not sure. We'll have to see._

_Momentarily hurt, he just nods and I feel guilty. He's helped me in more ways than I can imagine. He was responsible for getting us away from the slavers and he makes it possible for me to survive in this winterish nightmare. He's saved me twice now. Twice, I owe him._

_And it's for that reason that with a great sigh and instant regret, I say: But I won't let anyone hurt you or take you away. I won't leave you._

_His smile turns my insides bright, warmed with enough hope to infect the entire world. I welcome the waves and ride them willingly. Once, I took an Oath that meant more to me than my own life – it still does – and now I've given my promise again. What good is one if I can't honor the other?_

_Over the weeks, we create a routine of sleeping, eating, and hunting. We are prey more often than we are the hunters, and it takes all the cunning I have to evade death on a daily basis. Strange beasts survive in these unholy conditions. There is pack of mountain hyenas that stalks us. We have to regularly change the path we take on our hunts to keep from being herded. They are systematically figuring out our hunting patterns, and I worry that the spring thaw can't come fast enough. One hundred pillars. One hundred ways to die._

_Most nights, we listen to their howling, and it's almost like they are communicating in some way. The echoes of their lament bounce off the rock and get absorbed into the snow bank before they begin their nightly song again. One night Liam asks me what the hyenas are always howling about, and since I'm half asleep, I mumble something about how they howl to keep in touch with their pack, their family. He likes that. Sometimes during the day, he howls at me, and tells me he has to keep track of me. It makes me laugh, but the hyenas’ guttural groans of torment seep into my bones deeper than the cold, and it's on those nights that I always think of my Sammie._

_When we aren't evading the natural elements or wild animals, we are hiding from people. Sometime in the late winter, Liam and I hear an unnatural rumbling. From above a deep trench, we spy a small caravan: some covered carriages and a decently-sized contingent of guards. They must have coin to have a caravan like that – which is probably the only type of people who would travel through these mountains at this time of year. No way am I going to announce myself to them. They're either magisters from Tevinter who will make me a slave, or aristocrats with Crow connections from Antiva who will sell me as one. I think of my family when I see the caravan, remembering our trips through the mountain passes of the Vimmarks. My mother would sing Goran to sleep in the back of the carriage while my father and I would talk or sometimes reads, the driver steering the horses along. I wonder if they've taken any more trips. Do they think I'm dead? Do they think about me at all?_

_The spring thaw comes in fits and starts. The icicles partially melt, creating puddles, but then another cold night will freeze everything over again, remaking the mountain into an ice slick. It's maddening to be trapped like this, and I stir like a wild beast awake after hibernation and now ready to run. In Starkhaven, spring is a beautiful time of year. Flowers burst from their bulbs triumphantly, trees populate with leaves and birds, and the sky turns vividly blue. Here, spring is simply a different shade of grey._

_Finally, one morning we wake up to rain. But one step outside our alcove reveals that it's not rain, it's the mountain melting. We have to move otherwise an avalanche will make all these months of waiting fruitless. I know that the faster we get down, the easier it will be to find a route out of this place. The only problem is that the mountain passes are all open now, and a lot of travelers have taken to them. I stick to my assertion that I don't want to be seen, convinced that the fewer people notice the scrawny man and the little boy, the better off we'll be. We do a fairly good job of avoiding any attention on the road, hiding when we hear a caravan or see a group in the distance. We try to stay off the paths, but it's difficult. There's a reason the paths are used, and it's not because the other routes are longer. It's because there are no other routes._

_The mountains have helped me regain my strength, but I am not in top shape. My feet hit the ice-hard earth and my breath is labored, but I know that we can't stop moving. We jump over rocks and skate across pebbles while a thick fog hangs heavy in the air throughout the morning._

_It's the fog that foils us._

_We are climbing over big boulders, trying to move parallel to the southward path when we hear voices. Instinctively, I stop moving, and Liam crashes into my leg. I look down at him; he looks like a small bear; furs and skins cover every inch of him except for his face, and those large eyes turn up to me like beacons. Worry infects me, upsetting my empty stomach, and I turn away, closing my eyes to steady myself. I hear him mutter a sincere apology. I place my hand on his furry head. It's not his fault._

_The voices are too close. I hear a woman. No, two women. I crouch down, pulling Liam with me and press us up against a rock. Andraste, if you're still up there, please let us go unnoticed._

_One of them says: This is just perfect. What are we going to do now?_

_The second one says: Would you relax? I can't think with your incessant whining._

_Both of their accents strongly ring of Tevinter. Their affect is stiff, every syllable enunciated and pronounced. Speaking that way sounds laborious._

_What about the Anderfels? The first one asks._

_Too many Wardens. And darkspawn. I don't want the sickness in me._

_We have to go somewhere, Nes, the first woman says. That must be the second woman's name: Nes._

_It's won't work. Even with Desh, we can't possibly... The second woman's voice fades out, as though she is turning away from us._

_The first woman scoffs loudly. You're still thinking too small! Your little loan shark ring in Kirkwall wasn't big enough. We owe too much! The second woman, Nes, mumbles something, but the first woman ignores her and continues: We can't go back to Tevinter, not with Halcinus on us, which means Starkhaven is out._

_The name of my home rings in my ears, and I feel Liam tugging on my fur sleeves. I bat at him a little, straining to hear._

_The first woman continues: Antiva, Orlais, Rivain – all out! You refuse to go back to Kirkwall—_

_Nes cuts the second woman off: That place is a bomb waiting to go off! We're lucky we got out when we did._

_We need coin! the first woman says emphatically._

_I feel something sharp stick into my shoulder and I turn abruptly, irritated at Liam for poking me only to see the tip of a sword buried within my fur coat. I jerk my head upwards and see the cold hard stare of a grown man._

_He's wearing a bundle of furs so thick that all I can see, besides the long sword poking into my arm, is his square jaw and his tattoos which curve around his brow like a mask. But the way he stands, the way he relaxes his shoulders and plants his feet tells me that he's an adept fighter._

_The women are still bickering, and I glance down at Liam nervously, trying hard to control my own anxiety without his affecting me._

_The man gestures with the sword – he wants me to stand up. Very slowly, with my palms facing him, I rise to my full height. His stature surprises me. I've been around nothing but Antivans and Liam for more than a year, and they are all pretty short – well, short next to me – but this man and I are at eye-level with each other. He must not be Antivan, though it's impossible to tell right now, because every inch of him is covered with fur. Just like me._

_He grabs Liam by the scruff of his collar, and shoves the whimpering boy in front of me, wordlessly instructing us to move towards the women. Never turning my back to him, I have no choice as I carefully step around jagged rock to where the women are still arguing._

_I know the instant I get close enough for them to see me, because they stop talking. The man maneuvers us right into their camp, and I can only assume that he and these women are together somehow. The women are wearing heavy boots and thick fur-lined coats with their hoods tight around their heads. They have a campfire going, and even at this distance with the cold wind whipping around our heads, the heat feels wonderful._

_One of the women gapes, her gaze flickering back and forth between me and Liam. When she speaks, I recognize her voice. It's Nes. She says, What is this?_

_Spies! the other woman hisses._

_I keep my palms raised, instinctively taking a protective step closer to Liam and I say, No. Just travelers._

_Nes looks at the man with the sword and asks: What were they doing?_

_The man's voice is hardened, and he never looks away from me when he says: They seemed surprised to have come upon us._

_Great. The man saw us approach and then snuck up on us. I am so rusty with my skills, it's embarrassing._

_What're your names? Nes asks._

_Liam says nothing, as I've always instructed him to do. He keeps his eyes cast downward and his small hand tight around mine. I can feel that he's working hard to keep calm. I think of the explosion at the mine. The only reason to fear a mage is if the mage fears you. Things are easily put into perspective when you have a long time to look at them._

_We only wish to pass unmolested, I say, glancing back and forth between the women, the man, and the man's sword._

_Nes steps closer to me and the man raises his sword a little to match her threatening posture. She says, I asked your name, idiot, not your story._

_Alex, I say, giving her my middle name, because my name is my story, but I'm not stupid enough to tell it._

_Lies, she hisses. I hate liars._

_Unconscious of my movements, I push Liam behind me protectively. I won't let these people harm him, but I won't let them provoke him into harming us all, either._

_We are not your enemy, I say evenly. My—brother and I are just out here... hunting._

_The man smirks, obviously seeing straight through the lie, and the second woman growls in agreement. She says, Let's kill them. They heard us!_

_I have lived with fear and anger for years. I have lain in the dirt while looking into the eyes of my jailers. Men who would slice off a hand because of some meager slight one morning, and your head the next, because without your hand you were useless. I was a meat sack, filled with useful muscle but nothing else, hauling rocks and carts and people. I was nothing to anyone for a long time until Liam came along. My family probably thinks I'm dead. I cannot have escaped all of that, survived the demon, the swamps, the slavers, and mountains, to be cut down by crazed idiots hell bent on protecting their useless secrets._

_I let out a breath of air, a stream of opaque frost hovers in my eyes before thinning out. I wonder if I have been saving that breath, maybe for years. Maybe for this moment. Then I say, It doesn't matter who I am or what I say. I care not for your petty troubles or your secrets. I only wish to pass through these mountains, and I had hoped to pass unmolested. Obviously, my plans will have to change now._

_I feel something from Liam. Is it surprise? My voice changed, and I recognized it again. It was me. Corbinian Vael, the Marquess of Starkhaven, inheritor of the all the land north of the Northern Gate to Starkhaven and just south of the marsh, future Captain of Starkhaven's Royal Militia, and heir to the Golden Torch of Corin._

_The second woman – the one who wants to kill me – scoffs loudly; she doesn't think that my little speech will change anything. She would probably enjoy watching me die, as though it would be a welcome distraction from her problems._

_Something happens to me in that moment. Clarity wraps around me like a warm blanket and suddenly the world seems absolutely in order. I see these two women. I really see them. I remember their conversation; they mentioned the phrase "loan shark". There's something about them that reeks of desperation. My mind starts replaying their conversation, running through a list of places they can no longer go to, their need for coin. They feel trapped. Just like me. The decision is made so quickly, it's like it was made for me._

_But..., I say with a newly formed grin. You sound like you could use coin. I happen to know where you can get it._

_The second woman scoffs,_ You _? Know where_ we _can get coin?_ You?

_Nes evaluates me carefully, her beady eyes piercing right into mine, gauging whether or not I can deliver. Why would you help us?_

_I stare right back at her and say, My brother and I—I grip Liam's hand tight—We have a long journey ahead of us. We could use an escort at least part of the way._

_You could lie to us, she replies, and the man with the sword takes a step closer._

_Yes, I answer confidently, sounding more like myself in years. I could. But I won't. Because I have an axe to grind as well._

_The women exchange a glance. The second one says, You want us to do your dirty work, do you?_

_I feel myself gaining momentum and say sardonically, It's not_ that _dirty. I happen to have information that certain interested parties would pay for. I give this information to you, and you use it to get paid._

_I know how to trade information! The second woman says through clenched teeth._

_Well, it's not exactly loan sharking so I wasn't sure._

_When she draws her daggers, they ring from their sheaths like bells. She takes a step forward, but Nes grabs one of her wrists, effectively bringing her to a stop. The man with the sword doesn't back away though, and I pull Liam close to me reactively. Riling up the second woman may not be wise, but something tells me that keeping her knotted up with anger is a good thing. It'll keep her mind occupied with hating me, and then she won't try to puzzle me together. Not like Nes, who is clearly the brains of their operation. I need to keep her occupied with controlling her volatile woman. As long as I am valuable, they won't hurt me. But, one day, I know that I will no longer be valuable._

_Nes steps forward and finally speaks to me. She says, What kind of information?_

_I don't hesitate with my answer: What if I could tell you the location of six Antivan slaver mines? What about the names of all the slaver guards, the captains, and the sergeants? Maybe their wives, too? What would that be worth?_

_Her eyes sparkle. You were a slave, were you? Or were you a guard?_

_I was wronged, I say, and even I am surprised at the edge in my voice. Imagine all those who were taken away against their will. What would their families pay to get them back? What would the slavers trade to free them?_

_She regards me carefully and asks, How do we know you have this information?_

_I think about how long it will take to get out of these mountains, to cross the terrain of the Marches to get to the closest Tevinter city and I say, The easternmost slaver mine is just north of Treviso, about a day's walk. You have to abandon the main route about halfway through, but there's so much travel off that main road, that a new path is formed. It runs east. You can't miss it. The foreman's name is Antonio and he has a son named Benny. I'll give you another name every week. A location every month—I take a deep breath and as calmly as I can say, All I want is an escort out of the mountains. And a sword._

_The second woman scoffs so loudly that I actually jump. The closest city is Perivantium, and since you said you overhead us, so you know we can't go to Tevinter, fool!_

_I remember my studies of geography and history. Perivantium is a very small city, but a city nonetheless. Their roads are paved and there are about half a dozen inns. I've read that most of them double as brothels. Even though technically, she's correct that it's in Tevinter, it's on the southernmost border, which shouldn't be too bad._

_So I say, I wouldn't call the border city of Perivantium exactly_ in _Tevinter... Then I shrug. But I would bet that you have your ways of getting in and out without being seen._

_The second woman sneers at me. She hisses out the words: And how convenient that you've given the location of a mine so deep inside Antiva that we'll never see it._

_That's smart, Nes says, much more in control than the first. She looks me up and down, the suspicion plain in her harsh eyes. He knows we'll need the other locations to get there._

_I repeat my demand: Out of the mountains and a sword._

_The women exchange a meaningful stare, whisper a few things to each other, and then give the man a small nod. He lowers his weapon and appraises me appreciatively._

_Nes says: You'll get your damned sword when we get the rest of the names. And then that's it. Then our business is through._

_Deal, I say._

_She lays a hand on her chest. I'm Senestra. This is my sister, Theadosia. And he—she points to the man—is Desh._

_The man sheaths his sword but never looks away._

_Nes is Senestra. The loan shark from Kirkwall. Theadosia looks at me carefully and I can tell that this information means a lot to her. They must be in some pretty serious trouble to need coin this badly. To trust a complete stranger._

_I clamp my hand on the boy's shoulder and lie through my teeth when I say, This is Max. Liam's gaze shoots up to me, and I feel his momentary surprise – Senesta and Theadosia also look uneasy – until I also say: He stays with me no matter what._

_Lies upon lies. I hope that I can keep them all straight. It's probably best not to tell so many, and keep to vague truths. Details will only get me in trouble anyway. The only real issue is if they find out he is a mage, and his special little talent is going to make that difficult. We will have to work hard to hide that. Liam looks up at me warily, but I can also feel him working to control his emotions. I give him a small smile. I need his trust to make it to Perivantium, which isn't a place that I really want to go, but if they can get us out of these mountains, then spending a night inside a small city in some anonymous inn wouldn't be that bad. A bed. A bath. A hot meal. Liam and I can get supplies there, possible find a horse or a carriage, ride south to Starkhaven and then to where he wants. He and I have been through a lot and I gave him my word._

_Well, Alex, Senestra says, you'd best deliver on your promises. If you don't, Desh here will slit your throat._

_My sarcasm returns with my confidence when I say: You know, that's not a very good way for us to begin our relationship._

_Theadosia scoffs loudly and says: Andraste's blistered ass! We don't want a relationship with you!_

_Liam stifles a giggle, and I find that I am suddenly in good spirits. They need me, and I can see in Theadosia's eyes just how much. She desperately wants to believe me, seemingly frantic for a way out of whatever mess she and her sister are in. Desh evaluates Liam with a scrutiny usually reserved for criminals and apostates. An apt analogy, and I realize that this warrior is who I need to worry about, a lot more than the two women._

_But I don't want to think about that right now. Right now, I am thinking of Perivantium. I am thinking of my next destination after that. Perivantium is on the edge of The Silent Plains, which is another story entirely, but Nevarra City is much closer to Tevinter than Starkhaven._

_Nevarra City! My aunt and the family that taught me to survive!_

_For the second time in my life, I am on the road to the city that has become my saving grace. The city that is home to the family that will save me once again._

_Mother. Father. Goran._

_Sammie..._

_I am coming home._


	33. 9:35 Dragon, Spring

**9:35 Dragon, Spring**

"Goran!" Samantha huffed. "Goran! Fix your cufflinks later! I want you to read this."

She was standing in the middle of Goran's room, which wasn't that much larger than Corbinian's room, or hers, but still dwarfed her room at her parents’ estate—the Mayweather Estate— _her_ estate. She went there sparingly, often to fish trinkets of memory out of dusty trunks.

She was wearing a long formal gown. Draped in silk, it was the color of pearls and shimmered whenever she moved. Over the silk lay a cover of lace, golden as the sunshine on an autumn evening, with tiny beads made to look like tiny pearls etched in swirling patterns along the hem, sleeves, and neckline. The bodice had been finished only three days prior by the best seamstress in Starkhaven.

She had raced to this room was fast as she dared, hoping that her hair wouldn't suffer too greatly with the effort, for her maid had spent over an hour tucking the golden primroses in just the right places. A string of pearls longer than she thought she deserved wrapped around her neck and fell over her bosom. They had been a gift from Lady Pentaghast over the summer along with a curious little box that contained an enormous bug.

Samantha had shrieked like a little girl upon its opening, and it was all Goran could do to prevent Keis was squishing the thing under her boot. Lady Pentaghast had sent Samantha a Death Watch Beetle.

The bugs were famous, and not just for their predictive abilities, although the soothsayers of Antivan swore by them. In Antiva, it was said that, when the Death Watch Beetle started to hiss, death was coming and there was no stopping him. In Rivain, the beetles were considered such terrible omens that they were killed on sight; to simply see one was to bring about misfortune. But in Nevarra, the beetle was revered as a ward against death. Many considered the insect a status symbol, and the high nobility often kept them as pets in elaborate cages and even bringing them into their elaborate mausoleums upon death. Samantha couldn't help laughing at the silliness of taking a Death Watch Beetle into the death chamber where no would ever hear it foretell its ill omen.

As a courtesy, Goran had allowed Samantha to write to Lady Pentaghast about the possibility that Corbinian might be alive, but that the news was not publicly known. She had responded promptly, not only by sending out her own teams to find him, but by sending Samantha one of the disgusting creatures as a good omen. She called the insect her "favorite baby from her favorite litter" having bred them for more than three decades. Samantha couldn't believe such a woman would consider having a pet – especially a bug! – and instructed the servants to keep it in a glass cage in a room far away, and to keep her appraised of any escape attempts. She didn't want to wake one morning to find it hissing on her chest, its long antennae tickling her nose.

"Sammie, don't you have to get ready?" Goran fumbled with his cufflinks as a servant tried to wrap his cummerbund. It was red and gold and shiny.

Samantha was ready. "I'm serious."

"I'll read it later—that's too tight!"

"Sorry, my prince," the tailor mumbled, a length of measuring tape draped around his neck.

Samantha brandished the letter she held: the cause of all her hurry and consternation. It had been handed to her three hours ago and written fifteen days before that. Its writer lived in Kirkwall, and named himself Sebastian _Vael_. Sebastian hadn't signed his last name since before he had committed himself to the Chantry. The fact that this letter was signed in this manner, not to mention the content of the letter and the way he spoke of Goran, made her suspicious of the ground he was laying. Perhaps for his return.

"This is important," she stressed.

"Everything is important," Goran muttered in response. "The farmers haven't had enough rains, the Harvest Festival needs a Princess, we have to honor the Margrave of Ansburg, there is an influx of elves in the alienage, and the Tylers’ winery was attacked by maleficarum!" He threw his hands in the air. "It's all very important!"

Samantha's mouth turned down a frown. "I didn't mean—"

"I'm sorry, Sammie," he interrupted, sighing. "I don't mean to burden you." The tailor had pulled out a needle and thread to tighten Goran's cummerbund – it was apparently too big – and Goran sighed again, but this time at the details, giving up on his cufflinks and thrusting his wrists out to Samantha. "Can you do this?"

With a silent sigh, she stepped forward. "Of course." She used to watch servants affix her father's cufflinks when she was a girl. She worked the small metal between her fingers, threading it through the slits in his cuffs, and while she worked, she said, "I think it's good you are holding this dinner." When Goran grumbled something in response, she continued. "The people don't see you enough. They don't know all that the prince does – all the important matters you attend to!"

"Well, they will," he mumbled.

Samantha wasn't sure what he meant, but she was too preoccupied with Sebastian's letter to think on it. "If you have a few minutes—"

He looked to her plaintively. "Can I read it after?"

She could never refuse him. "After."

They nodded in agreement.

When the tailor was finished with his stitching, Goran turned about to check his attire in the mirror and Samantha peeked around his shoulder – he was too tall to peek above it – and she agreed that he looked very fine. For some reason, however, he seemed nervous.

Keis was waiting in the hallway wearing golden armor – the official armor of the royal guard, its seal emblazoned upon on the breastplate. Her mesh underlining was golden too, and coupled with her black hair, she looked like a golden mare readying to show. No other soldier or guard in the royal family's employ wore gold. But Keis was different.

The trio walked together down the wide hallways of the royal estate, Keis and Goran chatting briefly about security, a topic which concerned her much more than him, until they reached a set of double doors.

Goran paused, looking down his arm to Samantha, and she grasped his elbow as was proper. He just smiled.

"Ready?" he asked.

"Let's do it."

Keis gave a small knock on the door and a trumpet sounded, following by a very loud squire who announced, "Ladies and gentleman of Starkhaven, Her Grace the Grand Cleric, His Prestige the First Enchanter, and Knight Commander Rayce. I have the pleasure of announcing the Prince of Starkhaven, Prince Goran Vael and his charge, Lady Samantha Mayweather."

The great double doors clicked open and swung wide, and there was polite applause as Goran and Samantha stepped into the Great Hall of Starkhaven's royal palace.

The Great Hall was just that – it was a great big hall. The colors of Starkhaven were everywhere. Presided over by golden chandeliers and blood-red tapestries, the walls were lined with deep red trim and golden-framed portraits, not of royalty but of citizens who had risen in rank to own glorious titles. Corin the Grey Warden was immortalized upon the wall, as was the Champion of Starkhaven. Garehel's portrait was quite large, but his elven ears were obscured by a blazing trail of fire. He had been given honorary citizenship posthumously, and the running joke among Samantha's friends was that having died to the Archdemon was the only way an elf could have become such.

Goran held up a hand. "Thank you all for coming. I am pleased to play host to the great minds of our great city as we welcome our neighbors to the east, the Margrave of Ansburg and his family. Let us have a round of drinks and enjoy each other's company before dinner."

A whoop of agreement swept through the Great Hall, and the serving commenced without pause. Glasses both tall and skinny, short and fat sat upon every tray as spirits were offered from endless bottles. There was even a champagne fountain in the center of the room, the glasses stacked so high that Samantha had a rebellious urge to remove the one at the bottom and watch the tremendous crash of glass and bubbles all the way down.

Arianna ambushed into her in the middle of the Hall, already tipsy from what looked like a rich port.

"Sammie! You look divine!"

"As do you, Ari!"

Samantha could only stay irritated at her friend for so long, and after a few months it seemed pointless to try. It was the only grudge she had ever held, and after half a year had passed, she couldn't figure out why so many would hold onto their bitterness for so long – but then again, such matters worthy of rancor were far less trivial than hers and Arianna's.

Arianna's golden hair was decorated with tiny red silk flowers woven together at the stems. Her ample endowments proudly teased from beneath a thick red satin bodice, fanned at the top and slender at the waist, and Samantha thought she resembled a daiquiri glass, as though she were poured into her dress.

"What is this?" Samantha pointed to a golden brooch that sat egregiously upon the bodice just above Arianna's left breast.

"This is the symbol for the Antivan Crows," her friend responded, sounding almost bored.

" _What?_ "

She giggled. "When I visited over the summer, I met a curious little man who showed me a thing or two about… well, about the _little death_ as he called it."

"Is that what they call it in Antiva?" Samantha mused.

"He had these daggers, and when he ran them over my—"

An audible gasp interrupted the pair, and they both turned to see Lady Preston, her puffy cheeks wobbling with offense. The elderly widow had seemingly chosen this formal dinner to wear all of her jewelry and a dress that looked older than Samantha. It was made of thick satin and stretched across her body with so many thick and lacy embellishments that Samantha thought she resembled a tablecloth.

Arianna looked innocently confused, speaking to Lady Preston. "What? I didn't pay for it! I am not so desperate."

"Well – I never!" The lady exclaimed with a small bejeweled hand over her large frilly bosom. She quickly turned away, stomping through the crowd and waving for the attention of the elder Lady Kendall.

Samantha broke into a fit of giggles, which Arianna enjoyed immensely. "These perfect ladies with their perfect modesty. I do not understand how their live."

"Behind closed doors."

Arianna sipped her port through her ruby-red lips. "You should come with me next time I go. You live amongst the repressed! And how long has it been, truly? Four years? Too long, my darling Sam-mie."

Samantha flushed, finding offense at the idea of intimacy with anyone other than Corbinian and couldn't believe Arianna would suggest it, but of course Arianna didn't know that her Beenie may yet live. No one knew. Samantha's shoulders fell at that thought right as the trumpets sounded again and an unknown voice boomed across the Great Hall: "Dinner is served!"

There were tipsy cheers and drunken whoops and Samantha and Arianna worked hard to stick close to each other as they were ushered into the Grand Dining Hall with the rest of Goran's two-hundred guests. They linked arms and sat down next to each other along the unbelievably long dining table, set up with the royal family's best place settings and dinnerware. Servants, elves and human, were alive with activity refilling glasses with spirit to keep everyone bubbly.

To Samantha's left sat a lord whom she had never formally met, but rumor had it that he was from Cumberland. He was but one in a long list of specially invited lords and ladies from foreign lands that had been seated along the table nearest to Goran, who sat at the head near the Margrave of Ansburg and his family. Across from the girls sat the Luxleys who were far more interested in conversing with a young noble couple visiting from Orlais. To Arianna's right was Lady Preston's visiting nephew and niece from Tantervale, the twins Paavo the Handsome and Taru the Morose. Down the length of the table, everyone she knew was here, along with many she had never met.

"What is he announcing tonight?" Arianna whispered into Samantha's ear.

"He doesn't tell me about city politics," Samantha explained, finishing off her wine.

"Then do you know why we are playing host to this family _again_?" Arianna smirked. "Wasn't one state dinner enough?"

Samantha gave a small smile, remembering Goran's first meeting with the Eberstarks. It had been on the afternoon after he had heard news of his brother's life – and enslavement. He had been so unsettled that the Margrave thought his visit unwelcome. It was only after Samantha's encouragement that Goran explain the reason behind his strange behavior that Lord Eberstark had understood. Though their visit had been pleasant and filled with banquets and galas, it was also marred by Goran's princely duties as he made arrangements to track Corbinian's movements in Antiva. He hadn't felt that the Eberstark's were given a proper greeting and insisted they return the following spring.

"I like the Eberstarks," Samantha said amiably, and it was true. Their daughter, Lady Sophine, was an adventurous girl, and Samantha had enjoyed her company immediately. "But I think this evening is partly about holding a royal banquet. He has held too few."

"That's true." Arianna's tongue rolled the words off, and then her eyes caught the slight bulge in Samantha's black satin gloves and clutched at her arm. "What is this?"

"Oh." Samantha placed her hand atop Arianna's. It was Sebastian's letter. She hadn't had time to put it away, and so she had tucked it into her glove. "It's a letter… Would you like to read it? It's from…" She lowered her voice. "Sebastian."

Arianna's eyebrows raised into steep arches above her pretty brown eyes. "Is it a love letter?"

Samantha responded with flat affect. "No."

"Oh," Arianna seemed disappointed, but still held out her hand, palm up.

With a cursory glance around them, Samantha stealthily slipped her the letter, but Arianna unfolded the thick parchment without subtlety and began to read.

_Samantha, my friend,_

_Your concern is appreciated. Truly, I wonder who else in the realm cares for my safety as you do. Regardless, know that I appreciate it. It's nice to know that someone out there still thinks of me as family._

_To answer your questions and allay your fears, know that the Qunari attack left me undamaged. Yes, the Fereldan refugee that I hired to avenge my parents was responsible for the Arishok's death – in single combat no less. A romantic notion to be sure, but trust me when I say that watching such an event is more vicious and bloody than it is romantic. For once, I find that I am glad you are in Starkhaven and not here, because you are safe there. I admit, for a while, I had my doubts about the safety of Starkhaven – a Circle in shambles, the Chantry struggling for resources, the nobility angling for power. But you are as yet unharmed, and I pray that the Maker keeps you that way._

_It also concerns me to know that our mutual acquaintance, Taletha, has not returned to Kirkwall. She writes that she is a guest of the palace, but I fear that she is not allowed to leave. Have you seen her, and is she well? The chanters here ask after her._

_We haven't written much, and I thank you for allowing me the time to contemplate my future. Elthina has given me consult, and even the famed Champion of Kirkwall has provided guidance, but I am no closer to knowing whether the Maker intends for me to rule as prince or settle for a life of contemplation. The Prince of Starkhaven is a powerful seat, and we must have a presence lest our influence will be overshadowed by another city. These are not matters to concern yourself with, but I am concerned that you are unduly influenced living in the royal palace. I have also heard rumors of Goran's "Ghost Hunters". Tell me they are fabrications, Sammie. Rumors such as these do the prince's seat no justice._

_I am pleased to hear that everyone else is well, and extend my greetings to all._

_Maker watch over you,_

_Sebastian Vael_

Arianna folded the letter back up, snickering. "Warm greetings like applewine. More tart than sweet."

"He all but called Goran a usurper!" Samantha hissed, working to keep her voice down.

This prompted Arianna to laugh until her eyes wetted without giving a fig for who saw. She finally lifted her wine into the air. "The day Goran is a usurper is the day that I am an Avvar!"

Samantha laughed at that. "I don't know if Sebastian is thickheaded… or…"

Arianna sighed with a great big smile. "All men are thick in the head. Especially Sebastian…" His named contained four syllables the way she said it. "Such a devil, that man. A devil disguised as an angel."

"What do you mean?"

"Oh, come on." She giggled flirtatiously. "He would come back to Starkhaven, take you for his wife, have a thousand beautiful babies and be a role model to all!" She then rolled her eyes.

Samantha laughed reactively right as Lady Luxley, who was seated across from them, coughed, and it was all the girls could do to reign in their amusement.

Arianna gave the elder lady only a passing glance. "He lives a fantasy land where every wrong he does is never his doing. He has always been this way. I swear to the Maker, since he was fourteen."

Samantha tried to remember back that far – it had been more than twelve years! It was difficult to admit that he hadn't really changed that much. Though he claimed otherwise, all his roundabout talking seemed to imply that he still dreamed of glory, power, and respect, just as the prince's seat commanded. Did he dream of being prince?

"Do you think…" Samantha paused, not really to say wanting the words out loud but finally relenting quietly. "Do you think he'll come back? To lay claim to the throne?"

"Oh who knows?" Arianna brushed it off with a wave of her hand. "I doubt he would make a better prince than our cowardly Goran. At least _he_ understands his limitations." She then took a long drink from her goblet.

Samantha paused, staring into the space between her and Arianna, and wondered if the rest of Starkhaven felt the same way beneath their discontent. Cowardly? Samantha felt he was anything but cowardly. The citizens of Starkhaven liked to complain about him, because he was young and lacked proper manners most of the time, but he hadn't done a terrible job for someone who had never been groomed for the prince's seat.

The salad course was served moments later; strawberry and frisee salad with walnuts, and Starkhaven Harvest Bread with pear jam.

"Goran isn't a coward – just the opposite," Samantha said earnestly, lifting a forkful of salad into her mouth and crunching into the sour leafy greens mixed with the sweet juice of the strawberries. Arianna just shrugged. "Besides, I don't think many would accept Sebastian back. He was exiled by his own father. The people here won't forget that."

Arianna rolled her eyes. "You are right about that. The people here forget nothing! Why, just the other day I was walking by Lady Fortney's gazebo, and she was telling Lady Luxley how she caught Benji and Flora in the upstairs portrait room of the Kendalls estate during Lord Kendall's ninetieth name day celebration. Remember that, Sammie? I sure don't, and that was more than ten years ago."

Samantha laughed, but paused, wondering if everyone in Starkhaven knew of Sebastian's efforts to reclaim his birthright.

"Does everyone know about Sebastian's travels?"

"Not everyone." Arianna looked into her empty wine glass longingly.

"Why is he doing this, I wonder? Only a few years ago, he wrote to me that he was happy in his life as a brother in the Chantry. And now, he seems to be making an argument to abandon it." Samantha sighed at her now-empty salad plate. "He changes his mind faster than the season's fashions."

Arianna set down her wine glass, and leaned back in her chair. "You know, my father always said that when our goblets are empty, we either die of thirst, or we fill it back up. It's up to us, yes?"

 _Yes_ , Samantha thought silently to herself, staring into her own empty wine glass before a passing servant filled it with her choice of reds. She would have chosen Corbinian Vael if he had been on the servant's tray.

"So Sebastian's cup is empty…" Samantha prompted and Arianna made a face.

"That boy is never satisfied with what he has. You could pour and pour, and it would never be full."

After the salad course had been cleared from the table, a strange little dish of crispbread topped with roasted leeks and blue cheese was served, and everyone commented on the unusual flavor combination. Most were delighted, and even Taru seemed to break from her melancholy, but only for a moment.

The main course was Starkhaven Goose stuffed to their necks with sage cornbread and celery, their skin was dark and shining with a honey glaze, and the plates were adorned with blackberries and little white flowers. More than two dozen of them were carried out on sterling silver trays which sat on the fingertips of lithe elves. They made a big production of cutting into the glistening birds, and the chef came out of the kitchen to personally arrange the Eberstarks’ and the prince's plates.

"Ahh, Starkhaven goose. At least we don't have to suffer the Fish Pie." Arianna set back her shoulders as the servants served them tiny plates stacked with three layers of goose, cornbread filling, and blackberries.

Samantha hadn't tasted something that unearthly in much too long; savory and sweet, she had forgotten how much she missed these banquets just for the exposure to new types of food.

A clanging of silver upon glass quieted all conversation and Goran stood up. Samantha craned her neck around to watch him. On one side of him sat the Grand Cleric and the First Enchanter, and on the other sat the Margrave of Ansburg, Frederick Eberstark and his wife and daughter, and Ser Rayce Taaramäe, the Knight Commander of the Templar Order, who slyly winked at Samantha. She let out a small huff in response without being able to help it, and the lines around his eyes deepened as he smiled at her reaction.

"Thank you again for coming," Goran announced. "I hope you enjoy the feast this evening. Most of you know that I have announcements to make. Before too much speculation takes up the conversation, I'll take this opportunity to make it. First, after much deliberation and debate, I have decided to name a Regent to aid me in my duties as prince."

An inquisitive murmur cannoned along the table.

It had been five hundred years since the prince of Starkhaven had appointed a Regent to handle the small matters of governance. Many assumed that Goran would have no qualms about the appointment, but they had been wrong for years. He was too old, he said. He co

uld govern, he said. He wasn't infirm nor was he going away, he said. These were the reasons he gave, but only in private did he confide to Samantha that naming a regent was akin to admitting that he didn't possess the ability to govern, and that might give others leave to claim rights to the prince's seat. If there was anything Goran was passionate about, other than his art, it was that a Vael – and not an exiled one – sat on the throne of Starkhaven. Appointing a Regent had been a tough decision to make, and while he rarely had to make important decisions, it was the Council that hadn't been met with much approval, and Goran had failed to navigate their political maneuvering. He needed help.

Besides that, it was fairly well known that Goran didn't especially like the minor duties that accompanied being prince of Starkhaven.

But Samantha felt differently; she thought that his decision to name a Regent was an acknowledgement that he was willing to learn how to be prince. He needed help, and it wasn't such a bad thing to admit it. The people would respect him for that.

Goran stood tall at the head of the table. "I have refrained from this for a long time, because I want everyone to know how hard I am working at learning governance. My parents always said that cities run themselves, but I don't think they ever worked as closely with the Council as I have to."

Everyone from the front of the table to the very back chuckled, and Samantha wondered if any Council members were present.

"My parents didn't raise me to be prince, though I am not the first Vael to assume a throne he was not raised for." Goran was referring to King Maksimilian of the late Black Age. He had assumed the throne at the age of twelve when half the Vael family – and the Free Marches – had been decimated by plagues which many believed they were magical in origin, sent from the newly formed Chantry of Tevinter by the Black Divine himself. "I convened a special advisory group to put together a list of suitable names. It has taken some time, but I have selected Lord Wendell Arthur Garrity to serve as Prince Regent."

Lady Luxley bristled across the table from Samantha. Lord Luxley, who wasn't much for words, hummed in agreement next to her.

"This is not to say that I will be stepping aside or handing off my formal duties – quite the contrary," Goran said, and Samantha thought that he looked somewhat nervous. "Rather, Lord Garrity will be assisting _me_ , providing guidance as his knowledge of the law is unparalleled."

Lord and Lady Luxley both huffed, but Arianna leaned forward and whispered, rather loudly, "Something in your throat, Lady Luxley?"

The lady bristled in her chair, turning her entire body sideways so she didn't have to face Arianna, and Samantha had to cover her mouth to keep from laughing out loud.

"Second," Goran continued. "Tonight, we honor our neighbors to the east, the Margrave of Ansburg, Lord Frederick Eberstark, his wife, Lady Harriet, and his daughter, Miss Sophine."

Goran gestured to his left, and seated in a stiff suit with tassles hanging from his shoulders was a solid man with grey hair and large hands. He stood briefly, giving a solemn bow. Seated next to the man was a slender woman who looked much too elegant to be the wife of a military leader, and finally a pretty young girl with flaming red hair. Samantha gave her reassuring smile when their eyes met.

"This man has done Starkhaven a great service." Goran clapped the man on the shoulder. "He has given us the gift of friendship. We wish good relations with our neighbors, and Starkhaven has seen too few of them in recent years. I aim to change that, starting tonight."

A murmur of what sounded like approval stretched around Samantha, and she let out a breath she didn't realize she was holding; for a moment, she thought Goran was going to tell everyone about Corbinian. Lord and Lady Luxley shifted their bodies suspiciously as their gaze danced down the table looking for allies, for whatever position Samantha could not tell. When she followed their gaze, she found nearly everyone, including all the leaders of Starkhaven, staring at Goran who stood tall at the front. For the first time ever, Samantha thought he looked like a prince.

Arianna leaned over to Samantha's ear and whispered, "Strong silent type."

Samantha had to close her eyes and bite her tongue not to laugh, and even though these same words infuriated her before, she now found them a sharp knife through the tension in her body.

"I offer a toast," the prince of Starkhaven said, raising his glass. "To new friends. New allies." He scanned the table, finally finding Samantha. "And to family."

Every glass raised high in the air and all voices breathed the same word: "Aye."

And then the string quartet began again, torturing an emotional tune from those heavy strings that stirred the people at the table to set aside their disapproval, if only for the night.

The murmurs about town would probably die down sooner, Samantha suspected, if Goran took a wife and produced an heir. Though unpopular at the moment, he was still royalty, and there was no shortage of women who were eagerly interested in becoming the next Princess of Starkhaven. His lack of interest in any of them was the reason many assumed that Samantha had his affection, but they couldn't have been more wrong. She still slept in Corbinian's room, and stared out of Corbinian's window every day. Waiting for him to return. Of course, they didn't know that.

"I've never had goose, and this is delicious!" Paavo the Handsome announced.

"It is most remarkable," Taru the Delicate gloomily agreed.

"Wait until you try the green beans." Arianna slurped one into her mouth and winked at the boy.

At first bewildered, a sly grin eventually spread wide his thin lips. Dutifully, he lifted a bean to his mouth and crunched into it heartily. Arianna, without looking away from him, leaned back in her chair, reaching for her glass of port. Samantha recognized this routine; it was something her Antivan friend had perfected. She would have this boy wrapped around her finger by dessert.

Dessert was served just after Arianna managed to get Paavo to loosen his bowtie. His sister Taru was completely snookered on champagne, sadly sighing every so often. Lord Luxley was starting to behave rather inappropriately for an older married gentleman; he giggled ridiculously at every comment the moody Taru made, and even mumbled a compliment or two about the young girl's beauty. Lady Luxley rose stiffly at one point, and beckoned him to lead her in a dance, to which he hastily acquiesced.

Arianna dabbed her mouth sensuously after swallowing the last of her flaming cherries jubilee, and just as she made to rise from the table, Paavo jumped to his feet and asked her to dance as well. She agreed with a playful smile.

Samantha watched Arianna as she moved, like a hunter that knew her prey intimately. She had felt like prey on a dance floor once, and the hunter had teased her spine through an elaborate gown.

_Have I told you that you look lovely?_

"Lady Samantha." A velvety voice drifted from over her shoulder. It was Ser Rayce, the Knight Commander of Starkhaven. "You look as beautiful as the royal gardens. And smell as nice, too."

She tried to retain her civility, because she wanted to hate him. It was very important that he stay the evil stranger who had turned Innley into a monster.

She curtsied. "Messere."

"Would you honor me with a dance?" He extended his elbow to her.

She was more inclined to dance with Lady Pentaghast's Death Watch Beetle. "It would be my honor, ser."

She placed a hand upon his arm as he led her past many turned heads. She was certain they looked the odd pair, because next to her, he was downright plain. He was wearing the traditional formalwear of the Templar Order, which consisted of a plain black suit, a crisp black shirt, and a golden vest with the Templar's symbol stitched onto the left panel, a downward-pointed sword with wavy lines resembling flames. She tried not to pay attention to the fact that his vest perfectly matched the golden lace of her dress.

"My Lady," he said amiably as he placed his hand upon her waist. "I have asked you before. Please call me Rayce."

"I would sooner call Goran ‘Your Highness’." She placed her hand in his, held high in the air.

He grinned. "You are referring to the familiarity of using one's first name? A common courtesy among nobility, I understand."

"Indeed, ser."

"You haven't answered my invitation to tour the Circle, my lady. The offer still stands. I believe you will find the new accommodations less… stifling."

Samantha’s gaze  snapped to his. "A prison is still a prison, no matter the plush pillows and fine linens."

He smiled greatly, warmth radiating from his eyes. "Worry not. There are neither plush pillows nor fine linens in the Circle Tower of Starkhaven."

When he smiled like that, she felt completely disarmed, because it was quite clear that in his youth, he must have been devilishly handsome. Even with his hardened eyes, a clever brow presided over a winning smile and a strong jaw that likely made many maidens weep when he joined the Templar Order.

Though he was charming, she couldn't stand his tone. "Do you enjoy mocking me, ser?"

" _Rayce_." He didn't blink. "And I would never mock a woman such as you, Lady Samantha."

"Then you are teasing me. Playing me for a fool."

"You are no fool." He spoke with a tenderness that made her feel entirely uncomfortable. Was he interested in her for more than acquaintance or even friendship? But then he said, "I had the dungeons completely redone. You would approve of them now, I think."

She couldn't believe his audacity and scoffed. "You take me for a moron, then! I will have nothing more to do with you, ser." She made to back away, but he was too quick, taking a step towards her at the same time, as though part of the dance.

"Your brother said the same thing."

She stood still for a moment before she realized that leaving him on alone on the dance floor would only incite gossip, and she didn't want to cause a scene at Goran's formal dinner. She stepped back into his embrace. He moved slower this time.

"He chose that cell, you know," he said quietly.

She didn't believe a word of it. "No one would choose that cell."

"But he did. I gave him the choice, and he chose the cell."

"Over what?" She sniped. "Tranquility?"

"Oh, my beautiful lady Samantha…" He spoke carefully. "There are other ways to be rid of demons. I don't like the Rite, never have, and I've always preferred alternatives. In retrospect, I should have performed the Rite, but I didn't. I felt sorry for him. I felt sorry for all of them. I thought that I could save them. I thought that the mages wanted to be saved, but I underestimated the value they placed upon what _they_ defined as freedom. It turned out that we had very different definitions."

Shocked, she nearly raised her voice above propriety when she quipped, "Is that what caused the rebellion? A simple disagreement over _terms_?"

"You dislike me so!" He chuckled. "My lady, nothing is ever _simple_. There are layers of complication for everything. Risking death, risking Tranquility… it is not something mages do lightly. They had their reasons."

"And what were Innley's?"

"Maybe one day he will be caught and I will have a chance to ask him. Likely he will say _freedom._ Perhaps even _love_. That is something we can all understand."

Was he being purposefully cruel? Samantha decided that she wasn't going to let him get to her. "Is it such a bad thing? Allowing mages freedom like ours?"

"Such a naïve question for one as astute as you, my lady!" he said, laughing. "Mages… they are doorways. One does not leave the door unlocked when there are murderers outside. It's the same thing."

"But… surely there is a compromise!" She protested. "Not all mages are like—"

"Your brother?" He closed his eyes briefly. "I mean no offense, my lady, but freedom… it's not ours to give. The Maker has given us a divine command."

"Funny," Samantha seethed. "I don't recall seeing the word _shackles_ in the Chant of Light."

His smile grew wide, as though he enjoyed arguing with her. "He had as much freedom as any Circle mage could have hoped for. I even looked the other way when you and the Marquess and that other little girl visited him. But it was never enough."

"What girl?" Samantha felt the affront like a bee's sting – _what girl would visit her brother, and that he would never tell her? Why did he keep so many secrets?_

"That little girl who died. She was the death of him, too, I think." His eyes clouded over. "Such is the way of things."

Samantha felt weak. "Helena…?"

"Ah, yes. That was her name."

She let go of his hands, bringing the dancing to a halt. In the blur of the golden room, she remembered her confrontation with Innley after the first rebellion. Innley had been so different; angry and discontent, he had referred to his life at the Circle as an amputation… maybe he meant his heart. She felt this slip of information was such a revelation, providing insight into her brother's life, a brother that she was beginning to think she had hardly known at all.

Samantha tried to imagine how shocking it must have been for the Luxleys to discover that their daughter actually favored Innley! A mage! Did they blame him for her death? Did they blame the Circle? Did they blame the Vaels for their loose restrictions?

"Decimus incited him, then? Using Helena?" Samantha wanted it to be true.

"Decimus?" He frowned. "He was part of the problem, but a minor player if anything. No more powerful than a firefly. From what His Highness tells me, there was another who did the inciting. But that is neither here nor there. Until he is captured, we know only scraps."

She shook her head, disbelieving the evidence laid out before her. "But Innley would never… He was a kind boy! A gentle boy! He didn't want people to die!"

"Indeed, my lady," Ser Rayce said apologetically. "Demons prey on the best of us, and they take as much."

Samantha was getting very upset despite her resolve not to. "Why are you telling me this?"

The Knight Commander bowed gracefully, placing her hand on his arm as he led her away from the dance floor. "Pray tell, is your brother the reason you avoid visiting your estate? Has he ruined it for you?"

"What does that have to do with anything?" she answered immediately, not lingering on how he knew such things.

"A pity. ‘Tis a beautiful house."

She let out a quiet huff of frustration. Could he not see past the material and into how a place can be forever tainted by death? "I would tear it down if I could. Maybe build it anew if I thought it would help."

"Just like the Circle Tower, and yet you don't visit that place either."

She could feel herself shrinking under his potent gaze, and if she didn't work hard to control it, the tears would leak out of her eyes straight from her heart. "Maybe the dirt holds memory. Maybe the air stinks of death."

"And every year the flowers bloom to cover it all up," he said quietly. They stared at each other for a long moment before he offered another grin, this one smaller and full of compassion, and she considered that maybe he wasn't who she thought he was. Maybe he had been right about that. "For what it's worth to you, I never saw the Marquess in the Tower. I was in the thick of it, and I watched many die, but I never saw him."

Corbinian. She could see him as clearly on the inside of her eyelids as she had seen him that night on her front porch. With his empty eyes and loose fingers, dangling a sword split in two.

It had been four years, and still the loss was rooted within her like a personality. There were days when she wondered if she had an identity outside of Corbinian's widow, defined by that singular experience. Her pink heart swelled for him like a fresh scratch every day, but she imagined it turned more grey with every inch it sunk into the fear that he might never come back. And the more she learned about that night, the darker the days ahead seemed.

She wanted to tell Ser Rayce that Corbinian was not dead, that he lived still. But she couldn't say that to him. She could tell him that Corbinian was out in the world, fighting slavers and apostates and evil little men who would sell humans for coin. She couldn't tell him about the evil of the world, because he was a part of it. Even if he thought he was not.

"You ask me why I say these things to you?" he asked gently. "You may never acknowledge it, but there is a debt between us, my lady. One that I _will_ pay. It may take all of my life, but I will pay it."

She didn't want to cry. Not in the bustling room among the dancing nobility where all the people who were likely watching them. She blinked rapidly, trying to calm herself. "You are too familiar, ser."

" _Rayce_ ," he insisted, gazing square into her eyes. "And you are so sad. _Si je pouvais prendre qu'un once pour moi-même, je voudrais vous soulager de ce fardeau_."

Samantha swallowed hard, and for a few brief moments of the string quartet's song, she could hear only her breath and see only his eyes as the molten room dissolved until there was nothing left.

When the violin sung its last sad note, he stepped away, lifting her fingers to his lips. "My lady, you honor me with every word you speak to me. Please come for the tour. I will give it myself."

He bowed low and she managed to curtsey as he bade her a good night, retreating into the crowd. She watched him casually stroll to join the Grand Cleric, but he still glanced her way every so often, smiling that warm smile that creased his face.

"There you are!" Arianna surprised her. "Andraste's stake! You need another drink, yes?" She snapped her fingers in the air, looking for a servant. "Maker, they are never around when you need them… Have you seen our prince? I swear, the liberties he takes… If he weren't the last Vael then he would likely get dethroned this very night."

"What?" Samantha asked distantly. She was still watching the Knight Commander, who bowed low as Lord Garrity approached, clapping the man on the shoulder with a smile.

"He has been giving all his attention to that Ansburg girl. People are going to start talking about a political marriage… " Arianna gasped dramatically, but it was clear she was holding back sarcastic laughter. "Such a scandal!"

"A marriage?" Samantha blinked, scanning the room for Goran. She spotted him on the dance floor, his hand gently cradling the tanned fingers of one Sophine Eberstark, an elegant girl with flaming red hair and skin that branded her a Marcher. She smiled up at him shyly and he actually blushed.

Arianna was muttering something again, but Samantha didn't hear her. She was staring at the pair, watching her best friend let his guard down for someone other than Flora. She watched him sneak glances at Sophine's eyes, which were as green as spring. She watched him fumble a little in his dance steps, forgetting the movements. Samantha smiled absently, knowingly. Sophine Eberstark, affectionately called Sophie by her family. An interesting choice, Samantha thought, and not just because of her father, but because of her striking features. Her eyes were nearly reflective in their shine, slightly tilted up at the far corners and framed by her heart-shaped face. Her wild hair had all the colors of fire, and was pulled back into a long braid as though she couldn't do anything else with it. She had narrow shoulders, but was tall, nearly his height and beautiful in an unusual way. Likely, Goran saw her the way an artist would – unique and striking.

"Is that an…?" Arianna squinted across the room. "Who is that?"

Samantha redirected her gaze to where Arianna pointed, and saw a too-slender girl sipping from a glass of brown liquor, chatting amiably with the First Enchanter. It was Amethyne. "Oh… she's the assistant to the First Enchanter. She holds a high chair at the Circle."

Arianna sighed, her shoulders sinking dramatically. "Whatever. She's an elf. Next thing you know, our head maids and butlers will be clamoring for a place at the table! Ha!"

Samantha rolled her eyes, redirecting her gaze to the Knight Commander, who was now chatting formally with the Grand Cleric. Francesca was tiny next to him, but then again, everyone was. It was then that she realized she didn't know much about him. Who were his parents? Why had he joined the Templars? How had he ended up in Starkhaven?

"Arianna? What do you know of the Knight Commander?"

"That he is driven," her Antivan friend replied automatically, scanning the room for a servant to refill her glass. "Everyone says so."

"Yes, but what about him personally?"

She turned a curious eye to Samantha. "You wish to know the Knight Commander _personally_?"

"Not like that!"

"Oh, yes, yes. Of course." A playful laugh escaped her throat. "I only know what they say. And aside from his ambition, they say he is a widow and that he never lies."

Samantha looked back to the Knight Commander, finding him spying on her from the corner of his mysterious eyes, and he winked one last time.

Ser Rayce Taaramäe knew nearly everything about her and yet she knew nothing of him.


	34. 9:36 Dragon, Summer

**9:36 Dragon, Summer**

_Dearest Samantha,_

_It is with a heavy heart that I write to you. Please know how truly sorry I am to bring you this news in a letter and not in person. I hope you opened this letter first and not the box._

_Innley is dead. Allow me the time to explain how it happened. I'll do my best to describe the entire encounter, because I would want the same thing._

_You probably know by now that Kirkwall has a new Champion – the Fereldan refugee that I hired to kill the Flint Mercenaries: Hawke. The Knight Commander of Kirkwall tapped the talents of the Champion for a quest, and I was asked to join. Knight Commander Meredith received a missive from Starkhaven's Knight Commander Rayce, and requested that three specific mages be added to the list of the Free Marches’ Most Wanted. They were asked to be brought in alive._

_Innley's name was on that list._

_It took all the conviction I had not to say anything about his origin. Aside from protecting you, I didn't think it prudent to point out that I knew him. Thankfully, even though all three mages were from Starkhaven, Hawke asked me nothing about it._

_We found Innley in the Vimmark Mountains atop the highest point of Sundermount. He was crying, huddled up against a rock face. He didn't recognize me, and I said nothing to him. We watched him for a moment, but once he saw us, his countenance changed. I have fought demons beside Hawke for years, but never have I seen as many demons pour out of a single mage as I saw pour out of your brother. No less than five erupted from him. Rage, desire, and hunger, and I thought about you, and how I was going to tell you about how Innley died, for he did die. Who killed him, I cannot say, because between Hawke, me, and the two others who were present, we all struck final blows against all of the monstrous creatures._

_I know of no other way to say this: I am so sorry, Sammie. I will light a candle for Innley during the next service and add you both to my prayers. I cannot imagine the terror that he caused you as I read about it from the Templars’ reports, but to see him like that… to see how he had changed… to imagine that he held you in the grip of terror for a single night… I haven't been able to stop thinking about you since._

_I have sent along something that was found on his corpse, and I apologize sincerely for the morbidity of its inclusion. Hawke had no need of it, and to keep my relationship with you secret, I bought it from a vendor after it was sold. I thought it best to hide my desire for it. Please accept it with my deepest condolences and my most sincere affection._

_Andraste remember you._

_Your friend, Sebastian Vael_

She held the letter in her hands; the parchment was soft, uncreased, and it kept trying to roll back up. She read it just once, the paper sitting like an egg upon her fingertips. Unopened stacks of her family's letters and missives lay on her desk, remnants of a task that she had been thoroughly invested in until Goran had interrupted her new vocation.

Innley had once said that his life had been amputated. He had screamed this while in the clutches of a Templar as he was dragged back into the Circle Tower. He had been speaking about the Circle's restrictions, but Samantha imagined that it was those demons across the Veil that had amputated Innley. Slowly and with gentleness. Grand Cleric Francesca had always warned of the kindness of demons, of the tenderness, of their manipulations, of the falsehoods they spun to get what they most desired, which was a foothold in a mortal brain: freedom.

_I can make her talk. What would you most like her to say?_

The tears plunked onto her dress as she lowered Sebastian's letter, and there was no amount of squeezing that Goran could do to take it away. Keis stood nearby, her gaze fixed on the package, longer than it was wide, that sat unopened and untouched on the brunch table where the servants had left it.

Samantha stared into the parchment stoically. "I thought I would be relieved…"

Goran held her hand and said nothing, for what was there to say?

Memories of Innley the boy surfaced like bubbles in water – shaggy hair, laughing, hiding, secrets, and sticks. He must have been so full of rage, so full of desire, of longing and pain, that he was willing to give his soul to so many demons in exchange for… what? Freedom? His was just an illusion. Why didn't someone tell him that it was false?

"Do you think he was still…?" She searched for the words. "Do you think Innley was in there? Somewhere?"

"I don't know," Goran said gently.

"I wonder if he knew…" Her eyes turned bleary.

"… I don't know."

"Or if he felt anything…"

"… Sammie, I…"

When she started to cry in earnest, she could feel Goran's helplessness as much as her own. There were so many questions, and whether or not the answers existed or had been kept from her was irrelevant.

It took the better part of the afternoon for Samantha to calm down, collapsing with her sorrow and waking hours later in Corbinian's bed, the light of the day waning from the window.

She pushed herself up with difficulty. "Goran…?"

Backlit by the setting sun, a darkened figure sat in front of Corbinian's window, but what answered her call was a female voice. "No… er, His Majesty called me here."

His Majesty? That was old kingly appellation used before the Qunari conquered Starkhaven. When the Vaels took the title of Prince, they insisted that those old designations be discarded along with the title of King.

"Who's…?" She rubbed her eyes as a lithe figure moved into better lighting, revealing her identity to be Amethyne, the elf mage from the Starkhaven Circle, formerly of Kirkwall, formerly of Denerim, formerly of Highever. Her soft coppery hair was pulled up on her head loosely, and a cream-colored robe fit her small frame perfectly. Samantha was confused. "Goran called you here?"

"Actually, he called the First Enchanter as he thought you would benefit from a mage's knowledge," Amethyne replied. "But Raddick is a busy man, and so he sent me."

Samantha didn't imagine that Goran was very pleased that an elf had been sent in Raddick's stead, and she wondered why Amethyne had been allowed entry. But maybe none of that really mattered. Amethyne had helped them once, and Samantha and Keis had emerged from the remembering ritual unharmed and with the answers they sought. Maybe Goran could change his views on elves after all... Of course, he was capable of change – everyone was! Even those whom Samantha thought she had known so well. Like her brother. The things Sebastian said in that letter... she couldn’t imagine Innley could have changed so much, and into someone she would never have recognized.

Sighing deeply, Samantha sunk further into the bed; the sheets were a rumpled mess from her fitful slumber. Her dressing gown felt enormous compared to this small girl who pulled up a chair near the bed.

"He was my brother," Samantha said distantly, unsure about why she was opening up to this fifteen-year-old elf.

Amethyne nodded solemnly. "I want you to know that I am deeply saddened by your loss."

Samantha started rambling. "I don't understand what happened to him. He was so funny. When we were kids, he and I would make up games to escape our tutors. I remember one afternoon where he and I tricked our grammar tutor by speaking verbs in Orlesian. Poor woman thought she was going mad."

The elf smiled politely.

"This other time, Innley put on one of my dresses and bonnets and pretended to be me for entire sewing lesson while I was sent to the stables to learn how to properly saddle a horse!" Samantha laughed through her tears. "The only found us out because I got thrown… Father would never let me ride after that."

The silence was punctuated by Samantha's sniffles.

"Why?" Samantha asked the girl. "How does a boy like that give himself to a demon? Why does he do it?"

An expression of sorrow crossed Amethyne's milky complexion. "There are so many reasons. Most of them would not be understood by the most learned scholar. A demon can twist everything inside a mage; amplifying their fears, their hopes, their anger. Until the emotions become all the rationalization they need."

"Did he know what was happening?" Samantha asked, desperately hoping that Innley was somehow still innocent, tortured as she was by forces unseen. "Did he see himself… maybe from a distance? Or in a mirror?"

"It depends on the mage," Amethyne answered slowly. "Most mages don't appear aware of what's happening at the moment, but when they recover bits of themselves, they seem horrified by what they've done. But there are some who... enjoy it."

Would Innley have been horrified? Samantha thought about that, wondering if somewhere underneath all that anger had been the same Innley she used to know. The kid who hid sticks and struggled with penmanship. A young man who played games and kept things to himself. How many other secrets did her brother have?

"I think he could have been…" Samantha whispered, feeling ill at the thought. Innley, grown up and damaged in ways she couldn't fathom. "Sebastian said he was crying."

"Demons become—when they are accepted, they are then part of the mage," Amethyne said thoughtfully. "It's like that voice in your head that sounds just like your own. We all say things to ourselves that are hurtful, but a demon can be the voice that manipulates like nothing else, playing on emotions and desires, evoking feelings stronger than you can imagine. Maybe your brother was crying, because… because of that voice."

Samantha sniffled. "How do you know all of this?"

The elf had sat poised with her hands in her lap during their exchange, the expression on her face alternated between thoughtful and pained. "I have watched mages give themselves to demons. I have seen what the demons do to them… I have _spoken_ with them. Some call it a curse – it's just magic. All mages have different gifts, and some don't even realize they have them. But I have known about mine since a young age."

Samantha was horrified – to have intimate knowledge of a demon was something they both shared.

"I also know what it's like to lose my family," Amethyne said quietly. "I also have lost many friends. I have felt the pull of the demons inside _them_ , and watched them lose themselves." She paused a moment and then said, "It's not always the mage's choice, but when it is, it's that much more mournful."

Even after all that he had done, he was still her brother, and the idea that he had possibly been manipulated into becoming an instrument of murder made her feel both relieved and sickened. Perhaps he hadn't asked for it, but rather been tricked… And how had the demon used her in its manipulation?

She felt afraid to ask, but was compelled by her own inner voice. "Is it painful? To be… possessed?"

The elf gave an apologetic shrug. "I cannot say. I only know that many mages wish for death once they realize what is going on."

"And those who don't?"

"Those who harbor demons to give them the power to fulfill their desires. Those sorts of people would not be kind even without magic."

"How do you do it?" Samantha asked her weakly. "How do you say no?"

"I…" Amethyne shifted uncomfortably in her chair. "I don't really know."

"But you said you've conversed with demons?"

"Yes… but my _gift_ all but ensures that I will never partner with demons. Those that do not have a grasp into our realm run away from me like I am poison."

"You can cure possession?" Samantha's eyes widened in awe.

"No!" The elf was adamant. "I am sorry for the misunderstanding. I can recover the mage for a short period of time, but it _is_ _temporary_. I apologize, when the First Enchanter introduced me as a spirit healer, I just went along with it. But the truth is that I am a spirit _warder_. I can keep them at bay for as long as I am present. But that is all I can do. The Fade is one-way mirror for me. I can see in, but there is no way for me to control that energy."

"Except when you converse with demons."

"That's more an assault on them, I assure you. But they have to have a foothold. Here, in the mortal realm. Otherwise, I don't hear them at all." Amethyne looked down at her hands, seemingly disturbed by her own... gifts.

Magic was so strange; sometimes, Samantha couldn't believe it was real. Her gaze drifted to the bedside table where Sebastian's letter sat loosely rolled up.

"Do you know the Knight Commander?" Samantha asked suddenly, thinking of that isolation chamber, and of her brother's treatment in that cell all those years ago.

Amethyne seemed unsure of how to answer. "He is… the Knight Commander. Everyone knows him."

"What do you know of him?"

"Well… he…" The elf pursed her lips, thinking. "He is a widow. From Orlais. My Orlesian is terrible, but every so often I hear him speak it. He keeps his distance from the Circle, mostly leaving the day-to-day duties to the First Enchanter. They have a keen partnership."

"Do you believe he is a man of his word?"

"Suitably."

She glanced at the letter.

_There is a debt between us._

Knight Commander Rayce had added Innley to the list. Samantha remembered his voice. Those soft Orlesian sounds, those hardened eyes, the deep creases in the sides of his face; lines drawn from a thousand experiences. What was his angle, she wondered. Why did he believe there was a debt between them? Innley was now dead. Was that the debt the Knight Commander spoke of, and did Innley's death mean the debt was repaid?

What kind of debt that left her brother dead at the hands of five demons could ever be repaid? And were reparations even possible?

She leaned back against the pillows, the taste of salt landing near the corners of her mouth. Innley had been crying, Sebastian had said. She lifted a palm to her damp cheek, unable to stomach the idea of her brother's awareness of his own malevolence. He had wanted the family that had thrown him away. Faces replaced with flowers. Things replaced with things.

 _You were a shame to the family_.

Samantha had often wondered how much of her parents lived inside her. Their prejudices and follies. Their politics stamped into her with books and the Chantry. What if they were all wrong? What if Innley had been right? What if desperation had pulled the worst out of mages, and the demons were the only choice to make anymore?

What if freedom from the Circle was worth dying for?

Once again she wondered how she had wronged her brother, how her parents had aborted him, how the Circle and the city and indeed the whole of Thedas had failed the mages again and again by giving the demons all the ammunition that was ever needed.

"You should get some rest," Amethyne said gently.

"I don't want to," she whispered, exhausted. The tears came with ease, sobs muffled by her hands, her watery voice leaking through her fingers. "I close my eyes and see only horror."

"I felt like that once. After my mother sent me to Denerim, I had terrible nightmares. I always thought that my magic was to blame." Amethyne fidgeted with her hands, and they were so small and delicate, her creamy Fereldan skin stark against the Starkhaven tan. "But she was protecting me." Samantha lowered her hands, raising her gaze to watch the elf girl speak. "She sent me to people who would watch out for me, and they did. Just like the Maker sent you to the prince. He watches out for you. He didn't even raise an objection when I came instead of Raddick. I could see the worry in his eyes. They were the same as the worry in my mother's eyes when she sent me away. I like to imagine that my mother lives still, that she escaped Highever when the Teyrn's castle was plundered. Just like I escaped Denerim. I like to imagine that we'll see each other again one day."

 _When have I kept you waiting?_ Corbinian's words bounced off her ribcage, her shrinking heart darkened by old promises. But unlike this elf girl who had lost considerably more, those old promises pulled her into despair. This elf, this mage, had grown strong with that loss, and Samantha found herself wishing she could be more like Amethyne. Where was the girl's mother? Where was Corbinian? Samantha hoped that none of them were suffering. Not like Innley had. Not like they all had.

A soft knock rapped against the door, and Keis' dampened voice came through. "I'm opening the door."

When Samantha saw Keis' eyes, that clear worried expression of a guardian, Samantha relaxed, but only a little. She could sleep knowing that Keis was there. Goran peeked around from behind her. He was the last family she had until her Beenie would return to Starkhaven. If he would ever return.

“Sammie?” Goran asked politely. "May we come in?"

"Yes," she croaked.

Amethyne stood up, showing her version of graces by bowing awkwardly and shuffling out of the room.

Samantha was surprised when Goran turned right to the elf and spoke to her directly. "I've given Colin a message for a Raddick. Would you make sure he gets it?"

Colin the squire handed her a folded up bit of parchment with the prince's seal stamped in wax. She nodded stiffly, backing away from the door, the lightness of her skin and robe swallowed up by the shadows of the hallways.

The bed sank unevenly as he sat down on the edge. "We opened the box."

She took a moment to catch her breath, looking up and waiting for the answer that didn't need a question.

"Would you like to see?"

She nodded despairingly, knowing that whatever was inside will likely cause her more pain and from the look in his eyes, he didn't disagree.

He looked to the door and called out to his squire. "Colin."

Colin appeared in the doorway with a large box, and it was so wide that he had to angle himself sideways to get it through the door. He handed it to the prince with great care who set it upon the bed between himself and Samantha. With a deep breath, Goran lifted the top off the box, and Samantha leaned over to see what was inside.

It still shone. Not a speck of rust or dirt tainted its long blade, though the tip was still split back unnaturally. The hilt's bovine skull was pristine white, its horns curving around blackly without even the slightest indication that the elements had touched it.

It was Corbinian's sword. One-Cut. Because that's all it takes.

Only seen in her fuzzy memory and the occasional nightmare, this sword, with its strangely split tip, made everything seem real. The nightmare of that night had actually happened, and here was the proof that her memory didn't lie. Samantha exhaled, reaching out a pair of fingers to touch it. It was real. Solid and sharp with a history that no one would ever know because its wielders were all dead.

All but one.

 _I don't think a bit of lace and a smile will work for him like it does for me_.

Goran touched it, too. "In the missive to the First Enchanter, I've asked for a diviner. Maybe someone at the Circle can learn something from this. Figure out why it's split and where it's been."

"Does it matter?" Samantha was ready to give way to despair.

"Of course it matters. Knowing what happened to this sword might give us information about what happened to Beenie." He pulled his hand away, reaching behind him, where upon a small tray, sat a small vial of thick purple liquid. "You should sleep."

She accepted the vial, staring into the shimmering potion. She wondered if it was as bitter-tasting as lyrium. "This will help me sleep?"

"Yes."

"Will I dream?"

"Probably not."

She tossed back the tonic, and it tasted like relief.


	35. 9:36 Dragon, Summer

**9:36 Dragon, Summer**

_My family is dead. It feels like a part of me has died, too._

_Senestra and Theadosia – Nes and Thea as they prefer – recount the tragedy of the Vaels’ slaughter as though from a storybook. The Vaels; the pompous, snobbish, rich Vaels, decimated in the very city where they were the most guarded. It sure sounds like a story. Like one I would have loved as the young Marquess, but now it rips my heart from my chest and leaves it bloody and beaten, streaking the snow._

_I must be the last person in Thedas who didn't know. Of course, they have no idea what it means to me. Who I am. I thought I was fighting to get back to my family. I thought they would be waiting for me, and I have envisioned my homecoming so many times, the different versions have all blended together to make one giant wish. My proud father. My soft mother. My uncle, the prince! My aunts. My nieces and nephews..._

_But they're all gone. Murdered in their beds. In the places that they thought were the safest. While I was out in the city swinging my sword around like some pretend hero, they were being slaughtered. I should have been there to protect them, but the Oath demanded that I be somewhere else. Just like with Sammie._

_The farther away I get from it, the more ludicrous the literal interpretation of the Oath becomes. I've thought about it so many times that it's become an echo in my mind. The Oath demanded that I throw myself between the citizens of Starkhaven and their enemy – but when I was thrown between one citizen and their enemy, was I really supposed to abandon her? To let her die and go racing back into the city? Where does it end? If I encountered a child being tortured in an alleyway, should I have sacrificed her life, too, lest the demon turn and kill me? And what if I had died to that demon in the swamp? Would I have upheld the Oath then, because I had died? These questions swirl around my head every night, and I toss and turn, unable to truly rest. It's been years since I've really slept. I don't know how to handle this, how to deal with this sort of defeat – it isn't in my blood._

_They tell me that Goran survived, and while I'm ecstatic that my brother lived, I can't imagine how. He isn't a fighter, and if he can barely talk his way through breakfast, I have a hard time believing that he negotiated some deal for his life. Senestra gives me the rumors about his survival, which are so offensive they aren't worth repeating. However he survived, he must have done it for Starkhaven. It's a great irony that the only Vael in that castle who didn't ever want to be prince got to be one after all._

_I look down at Liam who sits at my side chewing on the remains of a squirrel's leg. He has stuck as close to me as a shadow ever since we left that slave camp. We have whispered conversations at nightfall when he tells me all those thoughts that he's been saving all day. Tonight, he asks me about the strange lines of color in the afternoon sky that appeared out after a rain shower. It takes us quite a few exchanges for me to realize that he's talking about a rainbow – he had never seen a rainbow before – and he asks me if the Maker was working magic in the sky. It's such a beautiful thought, such an innocent question, that it almost hurts to tell him that the Maker isn't a mage._

_Liam may have been in a Circle before and he sort of understands the laws of man, but he's still a little fuzzy on the Maker's divine laws, namely that magic is a sin. How do you tell a little boy that this thing he has, that's he's unable to get rid of, is sinful? That would break his heart. Well, I just can't do that. He has this wide-eyed wonder to the world, seeing things that everyone else has seen before but that we've become oblivious to, like caterpillars and flowers and... rainbows. These things are brand new to him, and he soaks them up with a delight that is both refreshing and contradictory. He has the ability to butcher people with a thought, he can infect others with his feelings, and could fold over into a demon at any second, but when he mouths the word_ rainbow _and gasps with awe, I can't help but smile._

_But it never lasts._

_Later that night, Liam rustles in his bedroll and makes squeaking noises. This is the other reason that I can't sleep, because I lay awake wondering what he dreams about. He doesn't say anything, but I've watched him in his slumber. His breaths come unevenly at times. He hums, twitching restlessly. I can't help but wonder if there are demons clawing on the other side of his consciousness, promising impossible things, everything from a fresh pear to everlasting happiness, which, when you're starving, may as well be the same thing. And we are most definitely starving. For family. For freedom. For permanence. I'm probably more afraid of his possession than he is. It's not just because I don't want to face another demon, but because it's Liam... he's just a kid. It's unfair that this is his life: that he can only be an apostate, a Circle mage, or dead._

_If Samantha and I had married when we should have, then we might have had a son together by now. Liam is older than our son would be, but the more time I spend with him, the more I wonder... what if my son was a mage? What would I do to shelter him? What would I do to protect him from others? From himself?_

_I was taught that mages are dangerous from an early age, and that has stuck with me like a second skin, but maybe Innley was right. Everything from Liam's life has been amputated just as Innley claimed. He must have felt so alone, not being able to tell anyone about what he was, about what he was going through. Did he wake up alone in the middle of the night, afraid of himself and of being discovered? I wonder if he survived that night in Starkhaven – the night the Circle Tower burned – and if he did, what his life is like._

_Conflicted, I look away from Liam, trying to push these thoughts aside. These things he can do, these things he cannot control are not his fault. I tell myself that, and deep down I want to believe it, but he's a mage just like the mages in the Circle Tower. The ones who allowed a demon into the world. The demon that eventually forced me to choose between my freedom and my heart._

_Thea snores softly, mumbling something in her sleep. Nes doesn't wake, but sometimes she does, irritated at her sister though she says nothing. I am not sure if Desh ever sleeps. I'm not kidding; I've never seen him sleep._

_The first time he removed his hood and I got a good look at his face, I was sort of surprised. He has black hair, skin that's nearly as dark as mine, a square face, and stone-grey eyes; his features mark him very clearly as Avvar. His people aren't that common in the Free Marches, and, at least in Starkhaven, are considered wild and uncultured – kind of like dwarves but without the politics. His tattoos, which are common among his people, trace the cut of his jaw from one side of his face to just above his eyebrows. But only on one side. Staring into someone's face and seeing asymmetry is weird. Also, for such a large man, he comes and goes as silently as a mouse, though there are times when I think he wants me to know that I'm being watched. He doesn't trust me, but that's okay. He's a swordarm for the kind of people that prey on those who are in trouble; I don't trust him, either._

_The sisters are not the smartest pair. It's been about five months of grueling travel across some pretty treacherous terrain, and yet all they talk about is coin and how to get it; intimidation, trade, and even killing. We've slept near each other, shared every meal together, and saved each other's lives from wild beasts more times than I really care to count, and yet I don't know them at all and I certainly don't trust them. This is why I avoid answering questions about myself or Liam. I want to hide our true identities for our protection. He's an apostate and I am the lost nephew of a dead prince of Starkhaven. We could be easily exploited for another's gain._

_Sometimes, though, I get the impression that they think that my identity is something other than I told them, like a wanted fugitive or maybe even someone important in Tevinter. It's almost laughable how suspicious they are, and truly unfortunate that the sisters only see ways to exploit others for their own gain. I assume that they will double-cross me at some point. It's sort of infuriating to have this non-interaction with them where they know that I am hiding something – many somethings – and not be able to correct their faulty assumptions about just what I am hiding._

_But maybe it's not me. They must feel things when they look at Liam, though he's been trying very hard to keep his emotions under control. Sometimes, I see the sister’s expressions change in mid-sentence, and it's during those times that I have to stop Liam – he's practicing on them and that's not right. He thinks it's funny, but experimenting on people isn’t ethical. Today it's practicing at making them laugh, but tomorrow he could be making them cower in fear. Of course, how do you explain ethics to a little boy? It's sort of like commanding men in my regiment, I guess; I have to lead by example. Liam is quite impressionable, so it's not hard to persuade him to do what's right. Until a whim strikes him, of course._

_It would be easier if we were on our own, and sometimes, just like in that slaver camp, I find myself watching for opportunities to escape. I could snatch up Liam and sneak away into the pitch-black night. But I don't and it's not because Desh is always watching, but because it's foolish to think that I can make it home on my own. It's not like I've done a great job so far. When I was out with my Pentaghast cousins, it was so much easier; we all possessed different yet complimentary skills that made navigating the world a manageable affair. Thedas is too cruel a place, filled with dangerous people and monsters and elements; while running from one, you can run right into another. So I understand why, when we enter villages, all the lights in all the houses go out. There are terrible people in the world, and it's not worth putting faith in the goodwill of strangers._

_One evening after a long day's walk across flat land, we spot a small city on the horizon. I stare at the buildings that rise in the distance, grey and square. It's been a long time since I've seen civilization. It looks so unnatural. So out of place._

_I ask to no one in particular, Is this Perivantium?_

_Thea whirls around, staring at me intently. Yes. We said we'd make it here._

_Nervousness creeps over my ribs; I feel twitchy. I wonder if I could be recognized – by slavers, a band of thugs who know all the royalty in Thedas, innkeepers, tavern wenches, and the myriad people that will see me and remember my face. The unknown is my enemy, but there's no way I can explain that to these women without giving them my name. I won't do that. My anonymity is the only protection I have left._

_I say, Let's wait until dark to go in._

_Thea's mouth drops open. She's so easily riled up, it's almost like she prefers to be angry. She cries out: Andraste's tits! I knew he was a criminal!_

_Liam bites his lower lip and looks away, trying very hard not to laugh. He's heard some pretty mature things in his life, but for some reason, swearing about Andraste's body parts – which Thea seems to do recreationally – always inspires his laughter. I almost wish he would laugh so I could feel happy for a few seconds. Anything to make this anxiety go away._

_I say, Well, if you'd prefer, we could dance through the city square, and I could sing your names in a song for all the citizens to hear._

_Nes turns a dark scowl in my direction. She says, There's no way around this city that won't get you killed by mercenaries. They patrol the Imperial Highway looking for marks like you._

_Thea is still flailing around, and as she yells, little puffs of frost escape her mouth. She says, I've never met anyone so demanding and entitled in my entire life!_

_Right. If she only knew my mother—had known..._

_She flops down to the dirt, flinging out the contents of her satchel like garbage from a bag – a map, a medicine kit, lockpicking tools, bandages, a sack of coin, some papers, small bits of clothing that resembles underthings – finally pulling out a tinderbox. She glances at Desh who immediately turns about and wanders off. I recognize their routine; he's gone off to find kindling._

_Liam's small hand tightens around mine._

_Senestra's scowl turns to a glare. Once it's dark, she says, we'll get to an inn, and then Thea will go and buy you a sword and bring it back. And then, you will give us the rest of the names._

_I bring my hand to my forehead and then my chest, and then say, I give you my word._

_Thea rankles, stuffing her things violently into her pack. His word! Who does he think he is – the King of Ferelden? Andraste's lily-white ass! His word means precisely shit to me!_

_Liam stifles a giggle; he's afraid but his compulsion to laugh is good for my nerves._

_Nes places a hand on her sister's shoulder. She says, We'll need you to call on Courtland. He will help us cover our tracks with the guard. Meet us all at the inn. We'll draw less suspicion if we aren't together. After a pause, she adds, I mean, they're looking for two gingers, not one._

_Thea's jaw snaps shut, her eyes alight with fire, and she aims them straight at Desh who is a little ways away, scouring the dirt for twigs and leaves. She looks worried. Why is she worried? When he returns, Thea resumes glowering at me, which seems like her second hobby. I am her solution. I am the curse of her existence._

_Desh arranges the kindling into a neat pile, and somehow while building a fire, the grip on his sword never loosens. It's been months, and he still manages to look moments away from killing me and Liam if we make one wrong move. I can't really tell what a wrong move would be at this point. The warrior focuses on Liam more than me, as well. I know that Senestra suspects Liam, too. I've seen the way they look at him. Maybe they know he's a mage. Maybe they think that I'm a mage, too. Maybe Desh can see the fear in my eyes right now. But he can't possibly know that I'm more afraid_ of _Liam than_ for _him. In my training, the masters taught to us trust our instincts above all else. If it feels like danger, it probably is. If it looks like a mage, it probably is. Desh looks at Liam. He never lets go of his sword._

_I'll give you the location of where the Crows transfer their slaves and the rest of the foremen's names when I get my sword, I say._

_I knew this would get their attention. This location would be extremely valuable for someone who intends to smuggle people – slaves – away from the Crows. And I hope they do. I hope they free every last one of them._

_Thea draws a breath in excitement, but Nes remains calm when she says, And then that's it. Then we part ways._

_I quickly agree, though I'm almost certain that they are planning to kill me, capture me, and probably take Liam. They'll descend upon me with a small army, probably provided by Courtland, whoever that might be. They think they are smarter than me, but they aren't. I see right through them._

_Right when the sun disappears over the horizon, we hit a paved road – the Imperial Highway. We see a campfire in the distance and hear drunken singing voices – Nes was right about avoiding this stretch of road, and so we trek off the path and into the darkness left by the setting sun. The torches at Perivantium's gates guide us to the city. I watch the sisters. I watch Desh. I keep moving._

_Liam gets tired, and eventually I have to carry him. Sometimes, I wonder if he has truly become like one of my brothers. I can remember times when I carried both of my other brothers. Goran fell out of a tree when he was eight and broke his leg – the last time he was_ ever _adventurous – and after I carried him back inside the royal palace, our mother summoned the healers faster than we could get him a pain tonic. I carried Sebastian more times than I can remember. Sometimes laughing and often drunk, I slung him over my shoulder and carried him back to the palace where there were no healers waiting in the corridors. I wonder how far I'll carry Liam. I carry him on my back, and I have to crane my neck around to look at the top of his head, his oily brown hair tickles neck. His cheek mashes into my shoulder and being this close, I can see the troubled lines between his eyes. Little boys shouldn't have lines between their eyes._

_The chill of the world without sunlight – light that used to be the Maker's, but has since left me – seeps through our furs right as Senstra, Desh, Liam, and I arrive at the inn. I didn't realize how much I was relying on the darkness until we step into the bright light of the inn, the illumination coming from a giant hearth on the opposite side of the room. The patrons stare grimly into their mugs of ale and the innkeeper barely looks at us as we drop a few silvers on the bar. There's a bard in the corner stringing a lute and doing a horrible job with the tuning. As we pass by him, heading towards the stairs, I wonder if my lute is still sitting in my room back home. I wonder if my room is still made up. I wonder if anything is like I remember it._

_Our rental is no more than four thin walls and a rotten wooden roof. There's a desk, a bed, and a night table, and all look a bit rickety. The ratty curtains are drawn on the window against the far wall. The bed creaks noisily when I set Liam upon it, and just as I turn around, Desh closes the door and leans back against it, blocking the main exit._

_Now we wait, Senestra says from the center of the room, crossing her arms._

_I have a suspicion that Desh is the reason that the sisters are in such trouble in Tevinter. Part of me wonders who Desh belonged to before they stole him. I've never seen him use magical spells, but the way he never sleeps... I mean, literally, I've never seen him sleep. That's not natural. I would bet that they stole him away from some magister and he wants to recover his warrior or guard or protégé or whatever._

_Perhaps you should start writing down the names of all those guards, Senestra suggests._

_I wonder if she's going to hold up her end of the bargain or if she's just stalling me. I glance at Desh who watches Liam who is watching Senestra who is now watching me._

_As soon as I'm holding my shiny new sword, I say._

_She shakes her head, almost imperceptibly. You don't trust anyone, do you?_

_I don't trust you, I say._

_She points a finger to her chest defensively. I keep my promises! I make deals that are true!_

_By preying on the less fortunate?_

_I've met people like you, she says distastefully. Hero types. You think that because I made money by helping people, that I must not care. Well, you're wrong! I've helped more people than you, I bet._

_Well, she's got me there. I haven't actually made anyone's life better. Maybe Liam... not that his life has improved all that much._

_She waves her finger around when she says, You think it's easy to be dependent on a stranger? It's not easy – it sucks, but that what I'm asking from you. But... if this is some trap, if you have people waiting here in this town, you can think again about shaking me down. I've got friends, too!_

_Out of the corner of my eye, I catch that Desh is resting his hand on the hilt of his sword. As I look back and forth between them, I almost want to laugh. I've been waiting for them to cross me this whole time, but I never once thought that they might suspect the same thing from me. I suppose it makes sense: I demand to come to this city, I have a history with Antivan slavers, I refuse to give them my real name, and I am escorting a little boy who they must know is a mage. It's a wonder they haven't killed me. They must really be desperate._

_Senestra is still irritated, babbling about being a businesswoman and how she makes honest deals. I feel a bit sheepish as I ask for a quill, and she shoves one into my hand haughtily. She looks partly relieved but also angry. It's as though she wants to hold onto it for as long as she can. Like she hasn't been entitled to it for too long and she's making up for lost time._

_I sit down at the writing desk which is little more than five pieces of wood nailed together. The legs of the table rattle as I write, but I write. A lot. I remember every name, every face, every accent and sneer, because when you've seen horrible people do horrible things, those people and things get branded into that space of your memory that you wish you could erase, but you can't. You just can't._

_I have about fifteen names and descriptions written down when there's a knock on the door. We all assume it's Thea, but it's not Thea. Once Senestra sees who's on the other side, she panics, scrambling to close the door, but the visitor slams his hand against the door's face faster than anyone can react. He's tall, wears an overcoat, and holds a long, twisted wooden staff. Behind him are two women, and behind them are about a dozen—well, the best way to describe them would be_ henchmen _. They remind me of that pack of mountain hyenas; dirty, unscrupulous, and hungry for a fight._

_Though panic prickles the hair on my neck, it doesn't belong to me. It's Liam, and he's woken up. Senestra and Desh must feel it, too._

_The man in the doorway smiles devilishly as he takes a single step into the room. I hadn't even heard Desh draw his sword, but he holds it up defensively. I reach for the knife on my hip, but we are in a bad position, spread out and away from each other._

_I glance at Senestra, and she looks frightened – no, it's more than that; she looks like she's living her worst nightmare._

_The man bows, speaking conversationally when he says, Desh, I'm so pleased to see you._

_Desh doesn't move. He doesn't stiffen or relax or anything. He's a living statue with his sword drawn._

_Senestra whimpers out the words: I'm sorry, Halcinus. I'm so sorry._

_Halcinus... Have I heard that name before?_

_I know, I know, Halcinus says with a genial smile, holding up his hand in a conciliatory manner, though it's quite clear that he's not conceding anything. He speaks slowly through his thick Tevinter accent: The important thing is that you've come home._

_Now, I've never seen a magister in the flesh before, just read about them, but if I had to imagine what a magister looked like, Halcinus would be it. He's shockingly tall – taller than me, with wild brown hair and a clean-shaven face. His clothes are expensive, his skin is flawless, and his green eyes are as keen as bolts of lightning. Fleetingly, I wonder if he could shoot sparks from them._

_I ran into your sister and figured you weren't far away, he says._

_Senestra opens her mouth to ask a question that is preemptively answered by one of the guards who tosses a green velvet bag into the room.  It lands with a_ thud, _rolling across the cracked wood flooring. There's a dark stain on the side of the bag, and as it rolls, red marks are inked into a dotted line across the room. That looks like blood... It comes to a stop somewhere in the middle, and it's then that I notice a wisp of red hair threaded out from between the golden drawstring closure._

_Maker have mercy... Thea's head is in that bag._

_Senestra starts to choke on her breath. She drops to her knees, her shaking hands reaching for the bag but stopping just short of grasping it. I would not recognize this as the same woman who was arguing with me earlier. Desh stares at the bag with what looks like fury, maybe disgust, he's hard to read. The mages behind Halcinus are unknown to me, but I recognize them. They are no different than the Antivan slavers; like cruel vultures, they watch poor Senestra with perverse envy, as though they wish they had been the ones to cause her pain._

_I want to crawl away, to snatch up Liam and break down the walls and the door and run as far and as fast as I can, but I can't look away from that bag and those red splotches on the floor._

_No one is talking or moving, just standing around enjoying the spectacle and so I stand up from the chair, but this draws the magister's attention. I feel his gaze upon me terribly. It feels sour, rotten – is that him or Liam? Staring at this man, at this magister, I come to understand a few things. He will see Liam as a mage, but not much else. When he looks at me, he sees another nameless nobody that he will have to mow down to complete his quest. I see it very clearly; my death is inside this room, and I am not ready to die._

_His gaze slowly drifts to the little boy on the bed. The little boy who has started to cry. The little boy who is staring at the soiled, green velvet bag. Don't look, Liam, I want to say, but I can't speak. I'm afraid to speak. Oh, Maker in the Heavens, let me take him away from here. Let us escape this room, please. Please..._

_What is this? Halcinus asks, and his eyes twinkle in the dim light – no wait, they shine briefly and he squints, like they are reflecting light from somewhere._

_I step forward, aiming to place myself between the magister and Liam, but this provokes a serious reaction from almost everyone in the room. Desh's eyes widen and he starts to shake his head, warning me to stop. The warriors in the hallway tense up, and I hear the clinking of their armor as they bring up their swords. Halcinus laughs, but does nothing. It's one of his mages who takes action. She thrusts her hand out in front of her and, faster than I can blink, a tremendous invisible weight slams me in the chest. I sail backwards through the air, and I feel my weak shoulder crack against the thin wall. I groan and gasp at the same time as I land, because the force of that spell has knocked the wind out of me, and because Liam is not an experienced healer, so my shoulder has never set properly._

_Rubbing my shoulder, I glance up to see Liam staring right at Halcinus, and I wouldn't need to feel it to recognize his expression. Intense fear. Frustration. Confusion. Please, no... I will him to look at me, to stay calm, but he doesn't. His breaths come short now._

_Senestra is still crying on the floor, her gaze locked onto the soiled bag that contains her sister's head. Desh looks somewhere between bewildered and murderous, with his sword raised, alternately watching Halcinus, the mages, and the guards, all of whom hover just outside of the room, their swords shifting in twitchy hands._

_Then Desh says to Halcinus, Your quarrel is with us. Not with them._

_He's talking about me and Liam. Is he trying to help us?_

_My quarrel is with anyone in my way, Halcinus says conversationally._

_I wheeze a little, trying to catch my breath, but manage to say, Leave the boy alone._

_But he's a mage, Halcinus says, as though he's stating the most obvious thing in the world. He's come here for this._

_I say, He will choose his own path._

_Choose? Halcinus laughs, and then informs me: No mage ever chooses._

_Many things happen at once. Halcinus lifts his hands which inspires the henchmen to push into the room which causes Desh to lift his sword above his head and bring it down hard on the nearest henchman. But what happens to Senestra is something that will burn in my memory for as long as I live._

_I barely have time to yell Liam's name before Senestra lets out a wailing, tortured scream that rattles the walls. I look up in time to see the henchman draw his blade away, revealing a thick line of red across Senestra's throat. With a wide-open mouth, she reaches up, trying to stave the flow of blood, but it's fast turning into a waterfall that cascades down her chest, soaking into her vest and pooling around her knees._

_Halcinus reaches over to Senestra's neck, submerging his hand in the flow of her blood. He smiles. His eyes begin to glow and the tip of his staff starts to blur – blood magic!_

_My hands find the wall, and I lean against it, scrambling to stand up. The bustle of movement, clinking of armor, and ringing of swords hitting swords swirls around me. There are so many people that I can't count that fast, and I barely dodge one sword before ducking another, and then everything stops._

_Freezing as though shackled to the dirty floor, terror locks me into place. No... No!_ Liam _! I want to turn, to calm him down, but it's too late because Liam starts screaming. Everyone in the room – me, Halcinus with his blood-dripping hands, Senestra as she slowly slinks to the floor, Desh as he sinks one of his parrying daggers into the belly of one of the fighters, and all these henchmen – we all stop, slapping our hands to our ears to escape the piercing sound. There's some kind of bright light on the other side of my eyelids. It's like being outside on an especially sunny day, and I crack open my eyes, but I am not prepared for what I see._

_Liam is glowing. His eyes, his hair, his skin, everything about him is radiating orange, bright and fiery, and without warning a flash erupts from him, knocking me back. I am dimly aware that there are screams coming from somewhere, but I can't focus on it because my skin feels like it's on fire. I crouch down as close to the floor as I can, balling up to the bed to shield myself from the heat which rolls over me in unsteady waves. They come at me in pulses of twos and threes, over my left shoulder, then my back, as though tiny comets are sailing over my head, their fiery inferno sparing me. But the roof does not._

_The comets blast through the walls, buckling the supports. Planks of wood aflame plunk down from the ceiling, landing on my back and one or two crack against my ailing shoulder. I shake them off, trying to avoid serious injury, but the room is literally caving in. I hear what sounds like crackling ice on a pond, but it's the window – long cracks are drawing lines across the glass for the frame is buckling._

_I hear agonizing wails, gurgles and grumbles and moans, singing fabric, wood popping with cinder, and gasps for breath that seize and then stop. The smell of burnt meat fills my nose and I try feverishly to breathe through my mouth only, but there's no escaping it as the dense taste hangs in the air._

_I think about the mine and the explosion, and for one eternal moment, I think that this will be the last memory that I will ever have. That I will be sent to Maker's Kingdom, into Andraste's eternal embrace, to passively live forever, watching those that I have loved and left behind go on without me. The thought chokes me with fury – No! I will not die in this room today._

_I scream Liam's name again and again, rising from my crouch, shielding my head from the falling debris, and it's like everything is moving too slowly to be real. Halcinus has his arms crossed above his head, a glowing wall of light arcing out from him, shielding him from the carnage. Desh is diving through the air towards the door, Senestra is on fire, her skin blistering, her mouth open, her head tilting to the side, falling backwards to the floor. The mages are trying to duck, the henchmen are lifting their shields, and as my arms reach out to the glowing boy who is screaming bloody murder, a bright white light blinds me and a force greater than I have ever felt slams me in my already sore chest. I fly backwards again, this time crashing through the window's frame – which finally shatters the glass – and I smash onto the hard earth outside, the remains of the wall crashing down atop me._

_I don't know long I lie there nor how long I am unconscious. When I crack open my eyes, I cough for the dust, but the sound is muted and there's a sharp ringing in my ears. I feel so tired. My head, my shoulder, my chest, my back, my arms… everything I try to move hurts, but I move anyway. I push long planks of wood off from me, and I look up to see the evening sky blanketed by haze. There are people around me, staring in shock at the building, which is, in a word, destroyed. The wall that I crashed though no longer exists. Well, it does, it's just been relocated. It's now blanketing me as I lie on the ground._

_I don't know how I manage to get up, but I shake away the grit, splintered wood and dirt, pulling the debris off of me, pushing it aside, and before I even know what I'm doing, I'm screaming Liam's name. I finally pull a plank of wood away, and feel a thud of fear so intense that it knocks me back to the ground. Liam! I call his name, pulling myself up—_

_Maker's breath..._

_Slumped to the ground in warped metal and burned leather, bodies lay strewn the destroyed-room's floor. They're all dead. Senestra. Desh. The two mage women. All the henchmen. Their bodies are mangled, and beneath the shocks of smoldering hair, I see long stretches of blackened skin bubbled up to a crisp with bright shiny patches of red – oh, Maker. That's not blood. It's skin. Liam has burned them alive._

_There are many names for what_ this _is: carnage, slaughter, massacre... I feel surrounded by it; a wave of dizziness rolls over my head and lands on my shoulders. The room shrinks. The bodies swell. I feel smaller and smaller. It didn't have to be this way – did it? I knew Liam had caused some kind of explosion at the mine, but I never imagined that he could do something like this._

_I see Liam crouched on the bed. He looks like he's hyperventilating, and just like the waves of heat or fire or whatever it was that he loosed upon the room, I feel unsteady beats of emotions rolling off of him, hitting me like tidewater. He's trying to control it, but he's clearly overwhelmed, and as it pulls and pushes, I close my eyes, trying to focus on those feelings that belong to me._

_I hear a voice, but I can't make out what he's saying. It's familiar. Unfriendly. Halcinus. I squint through the dust to see the magister encased in some kind of glowing bubble. He callously steps over Senestra's charred corpse, and towards the boy on the bed. Reactively, I lift my hand and try to speak, but my throat is dry and dusty and so nothing comes out but a cough. Halcinus takes another step – No! I have to stop him!_

_I manage to say Liam's name and the magister's expression changes. Like a giant that may look upon a mouse that's come to challenge its authority, I see amusement in his face, curiosity, but most of all, condescension. Liam visibly startles at the sound of my voice, looking to me with shock, guilt, and what seems like extreme relief. His eyes fill up with little-boy tears. Was he worried that he had killed me, too?_

_I may be covered in the remains of a wall, but I am alive. I hold out my hands and though they shake a little bit, I hoarsely say, I'm okay. See? I'm okay._

_My voice sounds far away. I can't hear very well._

_Halcinus says something with a wide smile, gesturing to me but I think he's talking to Liam._

_Liam cries out, pointing somewhere behind me right as I feel a metal-clad hand clamp on my bad shoulder. I cry out, too, trying to jump up, to fight._

Crack!

_Andraste, preserve me!_

_Pain shoots through my jaw and the guard pulls his hand back, or at least, I think he does. The world is getting fuzzy again._

_Where is Liam? We have to run. We have to get away..._

_Another unseen blow against the other side of my head forces me back down to my knees._

_My hands. There's blood on my hands. That's the last thing I remember before unconsciousness takes me again._


	36. 9:36 Dragon, Late Summer

**9:36 Dragon, Late Summer**

There was no such thing as a magical mirror.

If there were, Samantha would stare into it and see the future she was supposed to have: her own rosy cheeks puffed out in a permanent smile with Corbinian laughing beside her, his callused fingertips rubbing her fat belly, their child curled up within. She would be annoyed by petty things, like naming traditions and whose social gathering she was going to snub. Across the city, there would be no Circle Tower, no mages, no Templars. There would be no reason to take Innley away, because Innley would never have been a mage.

He would then come to her side at the birth of her child, laughing with her as they cooed over the perfect combination of disparate features: the baby's Mayweather-brown hair and the Vael-blue eyes. They would figure out a suitable nickname to call the child in place of the ridiculous Vael name that the poor thing would be given – Valerian, Cyprian, Octavian – Val, Cy, Tav. They would sneak each other furtive looks every time Corbinian's mother spoke, her drippy, agonizing drawl would have driven him mad. They would roll their eyes at their parents’ pride in them, as if marrying into royalty was the end-point of life. _What's next?_ they wouldn't ask. No more quizzes on history, just silence during Chantry service and prideful smiles across the brunch table.

And when Innley married, she would be with his bride before the big event, fluffing her hair and smiling at her into a mirror, both of their cheeks pained from the sheer happiness they would both feel.

But there were no magical mirrors out there.

She rose from her cushioned stool carved of oak, walking stoically down the hallways of the palace. The windows were tall and wide, but even so, the cherry wood paneling of the walls leant a darkness to the corridor. The doorways were lined with gold trim, an accent added two generations ago, and reflected the Maker's light too brightly, for she had to squint when she passed a window. She glanced at the Duke and Duchess Vael as she passed their portraits; blue military and black velvet ghosts.

The guards pulled the front doors back as she approached, the early morning light momentarily blinding her until she emerged onto the granite walkway and the world's colors faded in: bright green, new pink, pale yellow, soft white.

Goran, dressed in a heavily-embroidered vest, was standing anxiously at the palace gates, peppering Keis with questions as she mounted her horse. Samantha watched the tall woman, her black hair pulled back into a long pony's tail behind her head. She watched Keis adjust the leather straps of her armor, turn to check that her packs were securely closed, and then nimbly wrap the horse's reins around her large palms. Her horse was well-stocked: a blanket, packs that contains utensils and cookware, plus another pack solely for an assortment of weapons, most of which Samantha couldn't name. Keis pulled on the reins, turning the horse in a circle while she snipped orders at her group: three other men, one of which was Marke, the mage who had tracked Corbinian in the swamps. Then she turned to Samantha.

Keis said, "I will return."

She said it so casually, as though she was leaving just for the afternoon. But she wasn't.

Upon the news that Innley was dead, Royal Guard Specialist Keis had requested Goran's permission to put together a small group with the goal of finding Corbinian Vael and bringing him home. She rationalized that Samantha was no longer in danger; the Flint Mercenaries, Lady Johane, and now Innley were all dead. Goran had approved, and while Samantha felt that if anyone could bring Corbinian home, it was Keis, the growing space between them as her horse trotted away felt progressively colder.

Samantha hadn't been truly left by herself in years, and she glanced at Goran, the Prince fumbled with his cravat as he watched Keis disappear on the horizon. A few moments later, he bade her a good day as he had done every day for the past week, tiredly turning with his entourage escorting him across town to Starkhaven's Council Building where he would spend the rest of the day in meetings with various city leaders. He had cancelled half those meetings over the summer while the Eberstarks were in town, and so he had to make up for lost time. Prince Regent Garrity had done well navigating the bureaucracy of the Starkhaven Council, but Goran insisted on remaining at his side, determined to make himself into a prince, no matter how difficult the task. As far as Samantha knew, most of the land disputes had been settled, and nearly all wills had been taken out of probate.

Now that Keis had left, Samantha would have to pass her time without the warrior there to stare at her and, normally, she would probably retreat to the Prince's Royal Parlor, seat herself on the pink loveseat next to those Antivan vases that framed the glass display that housed Corbinian's golden armor plate. Maybe she would write letters to friends or play the piano or read. She would eventually get lonely, she knew, and call upon her friends to distract her. She would call on Arianna, who had finally been given her father's title – she was now the Contessa of Salle – which she had inscribed on little cards and sent out to all the high society of the Free Marches. The young Lord Garrity, Benjamin, hadn't received a card, and rumor was that he was thoroughly spurned.

She would definitely write to Sophine Eberstark, whom everyone called Sophie, certain that someday she would become a permanent resident of Starkhaven. The nobility of Starkhaven gossiped about a political marriage, and their horror at such a thing was enough to induce eye rolling. In Starkhaven, military leaders weren't considered well-bred, and no Princess of Starkhaven had ever been born from such a low status. But Sophie was quite sophisticated, Samantha thought. She was also wonderfully adventurous and curious, though at times she forgot about Starkhaven's rigid culture of decorum and spoke out of turn. At the Fortneys’ thirtieth anniversary celebration, Sophine had inadvertently insulted Lady Garrity with a simple comment on her hat – an overwhelming monstrosity made of dragon-lizard scales – by asking if her neck hurt from keeping it upright. Samantha had nearly fainted from holding her laughter inside.

She supposed she might even write to Vincent Tyler, who had spent most of the summer in Orlais, rumored to be nearly engaged to some Orlesian heiress. She would try to write to Flora who was still under the impression that her bowskills at killing people would win her Sebastian's affection. And of course, she would write to Sebastian himself. He wrote to her sparingly, seemingly distracted by the politics of Kirkwall and the actions of the Champion, with whom he had forged a personal relationship. Or so he claimed.

But she wasn't going to write to her friends on this day.

As she walked back into the palace, she took a detour past the grand staircase and lazily walked down a long, darkened, and narrow hallway to one of the sitting rooms. A roll of parchment, an assortment of ink bottles, and a bundle of quills sat elegantly organized at one of the desks, an old yet majestic looking piece carved of oak. She maneuvered around the fainting lounges and small card tables, setting herself in one of the highback chairs and as she pulled a length of parchment from the roll, her thoughts turned to her brother. The brother who had died not long ago. The brother who had become an abomination, a maleficar, and a murderer. She thought about his selfish desires, and how he had been so consumed by them that he readily spilt the blood of those he loved – had he loved her? – to obtain the freedom for which he had sold his soul. Assuming, of course, that the Knight Commander was right, and Innley had been mostly responsible for the Circle Tower's destruction. Unfathomable lies! They must be... How could he have been the catalyst for such a bloodbath? And why would he have done it, surely knowing that those mages that survived would be punished for his actions with _less_ freedom – the very ideal that Innley was fighting for?

Samantha turned that thought over in her head a few times, dipping the tip of a quill into an ink bottle. Did all mages deserve harsher restrictions for a single mage's actions? Did the Chantry have a choice in their response? How much had the Knight Commander known before the Circle Tower's destruction?

The Knight Commander, Ser Rayce Taraamäe, the man who had sent her a formal invitation to tour the Circle more than five times and had signed his name himself without his title – a gesture so informal that Samantha felt the strong urge to burn the invitation lest Goran find it and think something unbecoming of her.

 _There is a debt between us_.

Steadying the quill in her fingers, she began to write formally,

_Knight Commander Rayce,_

_Your insistence that there exists some debt between us requires an explanation that is long overdue. It is impolite to harbor such liability when I can relieve you of this burden. Allow us to discuss it so that I may absolve you of this requirement or that you may pay your reparations._

_Lady Samantha Mayweather_

She looked down at her cold words scratched hastily across the parchment and thought of the only question that was left that mattered: _Why didn't Ser Rayce order the Rite of Tranquility for Innley_? How would things be different, she wondered, and would she have felt that it was justified? Of course not; she had been ignorant of everything in his life so far – why would she have felt Tranquility was necessary? But... Lady Johane, the Flint Mercenaries, the Antivan Slavers, the Isolationists… would it have been someone else if not Innley? Did that even matter?

Determined not to give into her weaknesses, Samantha rose from the writing desk, reaching for the long velvet rope that rang the bell.

Why should she care so much about what the Knight Commander thinks, anyway? _What debt? Innley was dead._ There could be no reparations for that.

The servant arrived moments later, a sterling silver tray shining on his red-gloved fingertips.

"Deliver this to the Knight Commander." Samantha placed the folded and sealed letter on the tray. "Immediately."

The boy's talon-like fingers snatched up the small folded paper, and he dashed from the room so fast, Samantha startled at his sudden departure.

There. She was committed now to meeting the Knight Commander, and whenever he wrote her back, they would set up a formal time and discuss things civilly. Like nobility ought to. But now that she was set on a path, she felt impatient for her journey to begin. She had so many things to do, things to organize and plan and decide – the first being what to do with her estate.

She quickly grabbed her coat and gloves as she dashed from the room. Keis wasn't around to follow her anymore, and being truly alone was an odd, yet pleasant experience. Even so, this newfound freedom still felt stifled when some guard at the palace's thick steel gates demanded to know where she was headed before he would open them up. But once on the granite path, she barely had to look up to remember the way. Of course, she had made this journey hundreds of times. Skipping barefoot along the smooth stone path when she was a child to a leisurely stroll on the arm of Corbinian, to the last time she made the short trip: on the arm of Goran, with a gaggle of Templars and guards. But now she went to her estate alone.

Someone had been keeping the bushes trimmed – probably on Goran's order. The vines had grown higher along the face of the house, but to some in Starkhaven, that was a status symbol. The Prestons, who had ties to Starkhaven that dated back to the Towers Age, felt strongly about vines, but some of those families who were second-generation or younger, like the Tylers, felt that the vines were tacky. Goran had long stopped paying attention to the current trends, and thus without the wisdom of a princess or duchess, there was no opinion to copy. Samantha thought that the ladies of this town desperately needed a new Princess. Why shouldn't it be Sophie Eberstark?

Removing a thick key from her jacket pocket, she slipped it into the lock and twisted. It took some doing, but the oversized door finally creaked to life. Samantha had always hated at how heavy the door was.

She sighed deeply once she stepped inside – Goran had apparently made plans for the house to be cleaned, and often, too. Only the slightest traces of dust could be seen on the banister, and fresh flowers bloomed from inside tall glass vases. But it was also silent as a graveyard. _Still a tomb_ , she thought. She had a mind to visit her father's study, where he would sip brandy alone after she and her mother had retired for the evening, or perhaps to the library where she had read aloud to her parents so many times. But it was the wide staircase of the front entryway that commanded her attention, and her gaze unwittingly drifted up to the upstairs hallway. Without thinking, she placed a gloved hand on the railing, and slowly began to ascend the stairs, expecting the ghosts of her parents to make some noise somewhere, but there was nothing.

She walked a few feet down the hallway, finally pausing and turning to face the picture of flowers that had replaced Innley. This pretty picture of flowers seemed innocuous enough, but it actually masked the true problem with this home: that it was all a big lie. There had once been laughter in these hallways, tutors and music, movement and life. Somehow, when Innley was sent to the Circle, all life had ceased in this house. She had become the project to repair the family name, and Innley had become the stain which her parents had feverishly rearranged the decorations to cover up.

Samantha hated that painting. It was inanimate, tepid, and it had replaced a living, breathing, loving soul. She hated that painting just as she hated her parents for placing it on the wall without comment. She hated it in the same way that she hated society for coercing her parents into believing that Innley was a monster. She blamed all of them for what he became, but most of all, she blamed Innley for letting the monsters win.

Without thinking, she lifted her fingers to sides of the frame, and upon contact, felt all the muscles in her body tighten. Gripping it firmly she yanked it off the wall with one clean jerk. With a cry that echoed throughout her clean house, she brought the painting down upon the floor with such force that the frame splintered, scattering small wood chips across the rug. She lifted it up and brought it back down again and again, each time more violently than the last, and when she was finished, nothing but small bits of wood and canvas were left in her grip. She fell to her knees amongst the ruins of the Innley's replacement, her body wracked by sobs that had been so long held inside.

"Lady Samantha?"

She startled out of her despair so suddenly, drawing her breath inside her body and holding it there with her hands over her mouth – who had heard her? Who was there? She sat silently on the floor of the upstairs hallway, both embarrassed and irritated that someone had entered her family's estate unbidden.

Footfalls creaked on the floorboards. "My lady, I am sorry to disturb… I was told that I could find you here…"

His accent was Orlesian, and his voice familiar. By the Maker himself… it was the Knight Commander! Why had she sent him that letter?

Bringing her hands down, she smoothed out the skirt of her dress. She composed herself before calling back, "Ser Rayce? One moment. I'll be right down."

She had to take several breaths, holding herself steady against the wall and she brought out a handkerchief from her coat pocket to draw underneath her eyes, trying to broker her calm in the one place where she had no control.

When she descended the stairs, Ser Rayce was standing uncomfortably in the small front room, his hands fumbling with a hat. He wasn't wearing his armor on this occasion, but rather a plain black suit and a long grey wool coat. If not for the plainness of his attire, he might have looked almost normal. Once she reached the bottom of the stairs, he gave a hasty bow, and she curtsied in return.

"I received your letter," he said, evaluating her carefully. "I must ask, are you well?"

She gave a curt nod, embarrassed that he should have been inside her estate for her breakdown. She wondered how much he had overheard. "It is nothing, ser. I was…" Her breath came out shaky. "Decorating."

He reached for her hand, turning over her palm where they both noticed tiny splinters embedded in the soft silk of her gloves. "Decorating."

She nearly laughed at the obviousness of her lie. "Yes. Re-decorating, you could say. I'm so sorry, I was not expecting a response from you in person."

"I received your letter and left immediately." His accent made the last word sound cut short, as if bitten in two. "The guards at the palace informed me that you had come here."

She nodded, feeling like she might tear up again. She saw him glance over her shoulder, the curiosity in his black eyes traveling up the stairs and she thought she might die of embarrassment if he went up there and saw the mess of the flower painting. Samantha had to do something to get him out of the house. She had to do something to get herself out, too.

"Perhaps you'd like to see my estate's gardens, ser?" she offered. "Some fresh air might do me some good."

"Of course," he said, placing his hat upon his head and offering her his elbow. She took it gingerly, and led him through the kitchens to the terrace in the back. The long deck opened wide into the finely manicured gardens. Goran's servants had been busy out here, too, it seemed.

"Your estate is lovely," he said rather stiffly. Was he nervous?

Samantha felt fatigued with formalities. "I don't care how it looks. I don't care if it burns down tomorrow."

"You don't mean that."

"What if I did? What would you think of me then?" She turned to face him.

"I would think…" He paused, his expression softening as he looked at her. "I would want to comfort you."

That wasn't the answer she wanted or expected. There was something in his demeanor that was entirely too warm, too gentle, and as much as she desired warmth, she felt only the coldness of a widow's heart. "Why are you always so familiar with me?"

"Why won't you visit the Circle?" he countered.

"I don't want to visit the Circle." She scowled at him petulantly, thinking of Innley and that dungeon, dripping water and dark corners.

He nodded thoughtfully, turning to lead her down the steps, through the shrubs and bushes that were heavy with overgrown leaves. Underneath their feet, petals of myriad colors littered the earth and made for a far more beautiful landscape than Samantha could stand. How could the Maker continue to send the sunlight down when he couldn't manage to send Corbinian home?

He asked her the next question slowly. "Is it… because of me?"

Partly yes, but she didn't want to give him any more power over her, so instead she said, "Too many of Starkhaven's tragedies have occurred there."

He stopped in the gardens, bringing her to a halt at his side. His enveloping gaze settled upon her like a warm blanket. "You imagine it a place of woe? Dungeons and joyless mages?"

 _Yes. That's it exactly_. But instead of revealing her true feelings, she withered under his unbearably soft stare. "Why do you want me to tour the Circle?"

"Perhaps I think you'll see it differently now."

As opposed to when? The time she had visited Innley in the dungeons? The time that the Templars delivered her brother to her between the stacks only to usher him away, escorted at every moment? Perhaps that time in the courtyard where he had appeared so angry, not just at the Circle, but at her as well, that he could barely contain his rage and the Templar at his side could barely contain his hope that Innley would lash out? The Circle was not a place for touring. People were either dragged in or snuck out, and that was it.

"Or perhaps you _want_ me to see it differently," she accused, studying his reaction, finding it easier to fight than to unearth common ground. "Perhaps you want me to see the mages differently?"

"Perhaps I think every noble should see its… what did you call it? Its prison?"

"The mages aren't treated well there. I would bet you don't know a single mage."

"And you know them all?" His mouth spread into a small smile that Samantha found completely irritating. "Yet you never visit…"

"I suppose it's easier that way," she accused bitterly, ignoring his quip. "You can order the Rite of Tranquility without ever feeling remorse."

He didn't flinch. "I always feel remorse."

There was no response to that. Ser Rayce lifted his chin to the sky, flicking his fingers against the brim of his head to set it farther off his head. He squinted against the setting sun, looking across the way to an enormous tree at the very edge of her estate. It had grown so large and so wild that the fence separating her estate's gardens from the Tyler estate had buckled, its wooden planks pushed up in different directions.

He gestured to the treetop. "This is a Tree of Heaven, is it not? A territorial weed, if I am not mistaken."

She remembered this tree. She remembered walking this way with Corbinian one fine spring afternoon after Chantry service and talking about Innley. About their worries that he would be made tranquil. About how he seemed so angry… She blinked away the uncertainty, feeling flummoxed by Ser Rayce's utterly unpredictable and confusing topics of conversation. "I suppose the Rite is as simple as chopping down a tree, then? If you don't know the mage, then it's easier to—"

"I imagine your family battled with this tree for decades, but once they were gone, there was no one left to fight it." He ignored her and pointed to the treetops. "See how tall it is? How wild it is? How it overshadows everything? Only death grows in the absence of the Maker's light."

He was right; there was a large azalea bush that was wilting in the shade of the tree. Its buds were all dead.

He proffered a small smile. "You try to prevent it from ever growing so large, but for every branch you snip, three grow in its place. It eats up all the groundwater, and soaks up all the sunshine. Its stench covers everything."

Samantha narrowed her eyes, understanding that he was drawing some kind of metaphor from the tree, but she still let him continue.

"So you do what you can and try to dig up the roots," he said casually. "But really, the roots are stretching down as much as the tree grows up."

After a moment, she asked, "So if you can't kill it, and you can't let it grow, what's to be done?"

"Maintenance."

She wasn't sure exactly what he meant by that, and let her face convey it plainly.

"The tree will not trim itself," he said frankly.

She tired of this metaphor. "You are speaking of Templars and mages."

He cracked a grin. "My lady, I know nothing of trees."

She huffed – how he vexed her! "Then you are suggesting that magic and mages are just… limbs to be amputated! Cut back when they grow too big?"

He gave her a funny look. "I don't need to suggest it; it is a matter of Chantry policy. Magic is a sin in the Maker's eyes, and no amount of practice will ever bring forgiveness. Even the oldest mages are like children, and demons all carry candy."

"Evil can reside in those without magic—"

"—but will never be as dangerous as those with it." He turned, stepping between Samantha and the tree. "Demons are the true enemy, but the mage is a willing host. That is why there are these rules. That is why the Chantry invokes the Rite of Tranquility. Surely, your own experience has taught you this."

It felt unfair that he would throw her own trauma back at her in order to make a point, and she felt angry, her care of propriety leaving her. "And yet, your own rules betray you. You are supposed to safeguard the mages from demons, and yet it still happens."

He evaluated her academically. "You blame me. For your brother. Perhaps you think I turned him into monster?"

 _Yes!_ she wanted to scream at him, but courtesy demanded she hold her tongue. "Innley was manipulated—"

"By choice."

"—and you were supposed to _protect_ —"

" _And I failed_." He bit down on the words with bitterness. "I know what you think but will not ask: _Why did I not make your brother Tranquil_?"

She swallowed hard, waiting for his answer and refusing to shrink under his intimidating gaze.

"The answer is obvious."

She felt her throat constrict, the anger and fear and helplessness that she had felt for so long threatened to reach her eyes and leak out, placating her heart for another day. She might have given in to it, but not today. Not in front of _him_. She took a breath and forced it back down, keeping her glare steady and saying nothing.

"You do not know, then?" He waited another moment before sighing deeply. "When I was a younger man, back in Orlais, I knew a mage… She was very important to me. Because I was a Templar, I thought that she and I could fight off whatever came for her, as she so often promised." He spoke softer. "She promised… that there was nothing they could offer her. She was wrong."

Samantha kept still. "What happened to her?"

"The same thing that happens to all mages who break their promises," he answered sadly.

She could feel her heart softening and cursed its predictability. "She was… possessed?"

He nodded slowly. "It's like a knife, you see. Once the demon gets the blade in, all they need to do is twist. You can't simply refuse to bleed."

Samantha took a breath before she asked, "Was she your wife?"

The corner of his mouth twitched. "My wife died in childbirth."

She drew a sharp breath, understanding who the mage was, how painful it must have been, to lose one and then the other. Just like Samantha had. They had both lost so much at such young ages. In the sunny and colorful garden, a new weed stretched from the earth, one small and thorny, twisting around her, reaching across the space between them, and connecting her to him. She understood loss to magic. She could understand this.

Samantha whispered the answer to the unasked question, "She was your daughter."

He looked down, and, for the first time since she had known him, said nothing in response. From the way his shoulders fell, Samantha knew she had hit upon the truth. He seemed so sad now, but perhaps he had always been that way. His eyes were so dark, and the lines of his face were all falling down, and she had always assumed they were from laughter, but now she suspected they were actually from despair.

Ser Rayce removed his hat, fumbling with the inside liner. "I thought I could protect her. And then one day, she needed more protection than I could give." He blinked once. Twice. "The Knight Commander of Orlais ordered her made tranquil."

Samantha's mouth dropped open. She couldn't help it. "So she lives?"

He nodded again. "Afterwards... the way she looked at me… I was like anyone else in the world. No one and everyone at the same time. Death is almost better, I think. The one you love is gone no matter what, but when they are made Tranquil, they become walking reminders of what was lost. I could not bear it."

She brought a hand to her lips to hide their quiver.He continued, "Tranquility. Possession. I devoted all my time to studying it. To reverse it. I worked with other mages and other Templars on it. There are… ideas—rituals—theories. One idea was very promising, but it involved spirits in the Fade. Though the Divine is an open-minded woman, there were many opposed to the idea, and it didn't help that our early experiments were... unsuccessful. I was sent away before I could finish my work, and after a truly unfortunate setback, the project was scrapped. There are... others... who still continue the work, albeit in a different way. But now we come to the part of the story that involves you."

"Me?"

"My lady," Ser Rayce reached out and took her hand. "The debt I owe you is much greater than any apology I could give."

She shook her head. "I don't understand—what debt?"

His expression changed; he seemed altogether mournful, his eyes filling with regret. "Your brother recognized you in that dungeon cell."

Bewildered, Samantha's mind whirred back in time to that first visit to the Circle Tower where she saw Innley crumpled on the floor, his eyes vacant and his skin scabbed over from self-injury. Water dripping and darkness. Always darkness.

The Knight Commander continued: "My Genevieve never recognized me. No mage in the throes of possession has ever recognized anyone – but your brother _recognized you_. That meant something to me. I remember reading and re-reading through my notes on the experiments that we conducted at Adamant, and I managed to replicate some of them. Part of the experiment was allowing your continued visits. You and the Marquess. And it seemed like it worked! I thought Andraste had blessed me, because your young brother improved! I wrote to the Divine, the Chantry in Orlais, even to my colleagues back at Adamant, and many came to see his recovery, to study my methods and my notes. But he wasn’t cured... The demons... they were still with him."

 _What_? Samantha felt dizzy, trying to wrap her head around the idea that all of those times that she saw Innley, that he had been in counsel with demons – how could that be possible?

"When that other girl began to visit, things changed."

Helena Luxley flashed into Samantha’s mind, with her eyes wide as Vincent led her away... at a ridiculous party so many years ago.

"I let them think that they were meeting in secret, but I approved her visits because I thought that contact with loved ones might play some role in helping the mage fight away the demons. It wasn't so. He changed with her, he became angry, selfish, he tried to escape twice—" Samantha's jaw dropped. "—and he started refusing his duties. It wasn't long after that when the Tower rebelled."

Samantha didn't know what to say. The Knight Commander had experimented on her brother in an effort to save him, because he had seen in Innley what he had not seen in any other possessed mage – a fighting chance to save him. She blinked a few times, trying to understand what debt he could owe her, because at that moment, it seemed to her that _she_ owed _him_. He had tried to save Innley. Who cared about his reasons?

"If only we could have—" He brought his hand up, balled into a fist as if he trying to wrench something open. "—unlocked the secrets to possession… maybe I could have saved your brother." His hand dropped back to his hat and the corners of his mouth pointed down. "Maybe I could have saved my Genevieve."

That was why Ser Rayce was so familiar with her! Samantha was the replacement daughter, the girl who suffered from the same kind of loss as he. Demons had taken family away from them both. The only difference was that her brother had died, and his daughter had been made Tranquil – and then Samantha understood why Ser Rayce hadn't made Innley tranquil! He didn't want to take Innley away from his family the way his daughter had been taken away from him...

She released a shaky breath and then, steeling her resolve, reached a hand out to him, her gloved fingertips landing on the soft fabric on his coat. He was a Templar whose own daughter was a mage. And now, even after all this time – likely decades – he still worked to save her. How was he any different than herself or Goran, who still believed that Corbinian was alive, and who was willing to risk the lives of Starkhaven's own to find him and bring him home?

The tragedy of the ambitious and driven Knight Commander of Starkhaven wedged into her chest like a knife, twisting, and she couldn't refuse to bleed.

Ser Rayce gave her a small smile. "So you see, there is a debt between us, because I used your brother to further my own goals."

Samantha spoke quietly. "You aren't responsible for what Innley did."

"My lady, you contradict yourself," he replied in kind. "On the one hand, you say that mages are victims, but then you blame your brother for accepting the demon's offer. Which is it? Are the mages at fault or is it as you said earlier: it is a Templar's job to safeguard the mages from demons."

"Mages must be strong, but the Templars and the Chantry…" She thought of that picture of flowers that now lay in pieces on the floor of the upstairs hallway. "Their methods are extreme. The same organization that locks the mages up are the ones educating us on why they are monsters. If the stigma of being a mage weren't so great, then maybe so many wouldn't feel abandoned, and then the demons would have nothing to tempt them with."

He covered her hand with his. "I'm sorry, my lady. That is a naïve point of view. Look at Tevinter. Look at how a handful of mages have shaped an entire society with magic. With slavery. You would not have the freedoms you have without the Chantry."

"And that is a narrow point of view," she countered. "There are many non-magister run countries, and they all developed differently. They aren't all full of slavery."

"Yes," he admitted, chuckling. "Some are run on the backs of working men and women. But they are only slaves of a different sort."

"But not to magic."

"You miss my point," he said patiently. "Those who have influence will always use it. Whether it comes from magic or coin, it matters not. You think free mages would be gentle? Fair? You think they wouldn't take what they want just like anyone else? The only difference between us and Tevinter is the Chantry."

She looked back to the Tree of Heaven. "Then maybe there is no solution to this problem. Maybe there will always be corruptive forces that trump the goodwill of women and men."

And then he said something that surprised her: "And maybe Andraste has stopped pleading for us after all. And we are on our own."

She didn't want to believe that, speaking slowly without looking at him. "That's not—" But he interrupted her.

"I tell you this, because I see you more often than you know. I see the sadness in your eyes." Ser Rayce lifted his gaze to the surrounding gardens. "I see the reticence to visit this beautiful home." He brought his gentle black gaze back down, and it felt heavier upon her this time. "Your family died. You did not."

An unexpected burst of tears sprang from her eyes and she looked away, bringing her fingers up to hide them, but he reached for her wrist to keep her from escaping. And then he said, " _Survive this_ , Lady Samantha. Do not let this loss kill you the way it has killed so many others. The way it has killed me."

In those dark eyes, beneath the driving ambition that masked the bitterness for the institution he served, past the sardonic remarks and the curious queries, she could see his heart, abandoned by his faith and boiled by decades of horrors. Of things Samantha had only grazed the surface. Of a life changed repeatedly, one harrowing at a time.


	37. 9:37 Dragon, Summer

**9:37 Dragon, Summer**

_Survive this._

The Knight Commander's words haunted her. She heard them hissed into her ear while she slept; they crept through the shadowed hallways of the palace and drifted on the breeze during walks after service. No one around her seemed to notice, singing with their strong voices and smiling their joyful smiles. She watched the people pass around her, she watched the trees shed their leaves, and she watched the sky darken and brighten again. But it wasn't the same as before.

She and Goran had just received their afternoon tea in one of the formal sitting rooms. It was cooler in this room than the brunch room, where windows covered an entire wall and, during the hottest time of the day at the hottest time of the year, it was like sitting in a steam-room.

Samantha fiddled with a quill, tickling her chin with the feather-end and counting the names on the parchment; she was finalizing the guest list for her name day dinner. Historically, she hadn't been very excited for parties, but now that she was older – and she couldn't fathom that she was turning twenty-nine years old in just over a month – she discovered she rather enjoyed time with her friends. She would call on Arianna, Vincent, Benjamin, and Sophine. She supposed that there will be rumblings about town that she wasn't going to hold some elaborate gala, but she had barely endured the previous year, what with the continued stares from Starkhaven's nobility, probably wondering just when she was going to move out of the palace.

 _Survive this_.

There are different levels of survival, and Samantha had to wonder which levels she had come to accept.

While only time with her friends could cause Samantha to truly smile of late, Goran had started smiling more and more. He smiled when the sun shone down on his mother's fountain in the Royal Gardens. He smiled when he passed by Sophine's portrait in the gallery – a truly lovely painting with some of the most delicate strokes Samantha had seen from his brush. But mostly, he smiled when the post arrived, which was why he was smiling at that particular moment.

Biting the nail on his thumb, he turned his back to Samantha as he read Sophie's letter; a gesture that she knew meant that he wished for privacy. Quietly, she rose from the sofa, silently motioning for the servant to bring her teacup, the stationary, and invitations to the other room. Just as she was tip-toeing across the large, plush rug – a round silken masterpiece only recently imported from Rivain – Goran's voice interrupted her stealthy retreat. He wasn't talking to her, but he might as well have been.

He said, "Keis."

The name halted Samantha in her tracks at the closed doors and spun around. Goran turned to her just as abruptly. He held a letter in his hands. It had been almost a year since Keis' departure.

Feverish with anticipation for what the letter might say, Samantha shimmied over to Goran's side and impatiently alternated her gaze between him and the letter. The letter with news about Corbinian. There was no other reason why Keis would write.

With another one of his now all-too-common smiles, Goran carefully cracked the wax seal and unfolded the missive. As his eyes skimmed the letter, Samantha tried to peek at the words on the page, but the most she could make out was that Keis had terrible penmanship.

Goran's smile grew wide. "She found his slave camp." He paused as he continued to read and Samantha stood in silent expectancy. "He escaped! ... Someone escaped with him. They think he—"

Goran and Samantha both started, because the heavy Orlesian double doors to the room burst wide open with a loud crack, and a rather unexpected figure loomed in the entrance: the Knight Commander of Starkhaven, Ser Rayce Taaramäe.

Goran lowered the letter, pausing to stare awkwardly. Seeing the Knight Commander was a great surprise, for he was supposed to be with Grand Cleric Francesca in Orlais for the Ten Year Gathering. His hair was stuck to his head, as though he had, at one point, been wearing a helmet or a hat. His boots were caked in dirt, his pants were well wrinkled, and his skin looked tinted darker than normal.

Ser Rayce sighed deeply with relief at the sight of them – or, in particular, at the sight of Goran. Breathless, he hastily bowed just as two guards and Colin, Goran's squire, rushed through the wide-open doors.

"You must be announced, ser!" Colin squeaked, then turning to Goran. "My prince! The Knight Commander—"

"The prince can see me!" Rayce snapped at the boy, displaying his rarely revealed temper. "Your Highness, I must speak to you at once."

Goran held up his hands to Colin and the guards, gesturing for them to close the doors. Rising from his chair and stepping forward he gestured to the adjacent sofas. "Come in, then. Do you need anything?" Goran looked down to the man's boots. "Perhaps... a warm bath?"

"A bath?" Rayce blurted, bewildered, before refocusing. "Your Highness, we have put the Circle on lockdown. I must ask for a reserve contingent of guard to secure the Tower."

Samantha's gaze snapped to the window, through which she could see the Circle Tower. From her vantage point, she could glimpse the top of the Western Gates. She had stood near the gates once with Corbinian at her side, reading a bronze plaque. It had said, _Time inevitably brings an end to all things in the material world, and yet in this ending is the seed of a beginning._ First Enchanter Raddick had insisted that those plaques be re-forged for the new tower. And ever unchanging, as it had been on that day, the Tower was still and quiet, its height made more impressive by its gleaming white stones and gold accents. Remade to look as it had once been. As though nothing ever changes. Maybe that had been the point. The mages could burn the tower to the ground, but it would come back like a weed. A white gleaming Tree of Heaven.

Goran didn't move. He just asked, "Why?"

Ser Rayce rushed to get the words out. "The Champion of Kirkwall and a rogue apostate have destroyed the Chantry in Kirkwall and murdered Grand Cleric Elthina, First Enchanter Orsino, _and_ Knight Commander Meredith."

Samantha let out a gasp, slapping her hands to her mouth, her thoughts twisting around her head like a ribbon caught in the wind. _Sebastian!_ Was he there? Was he dead? She imagined mages flying out of Kirkwall's tower on smooth twists of smoke, throwing fireballs from their fingers and turning brothers and sisters to stone with their eyes.

Goran still stood motionless, staring at the Knight Commander in shock.

"Your Highness," Rayce prompted eagerly. "I know you have questions and I will answer them, but first I need the city guard to secure our own mages."

"Yes," Goran rasped, coming to his senses. "Do what you must, ser. My resources are at your disposal."

Without showing any relief, the Knight Commander spun about, his cape fanning out behind him dramatically. He made for the door, but halted at the sound of Samantha's terror-stricken voice.

"Do the mages know?" she asked, thinking of the last rebellion.

"Not yet," he replied quietly.

He turned and gripped the handles of both doors simultaneously, swinging them open wide. To her surprise, the Knight Commander halted just outside the door, pivoting around to look at her.

 _Survive this_.

He said, "I will return."

Keis had said that.

Samantha felt sick to her stomach, a brackish lump rising in her throat. But it wasn't just fear for herself or Goran or Sebastian – it was for Ser Rayce as well. She didn't want any of them to die.

Goran plopped down on a soft sofa, his expression blank. "A Chantry destroyed... A Grand Cleric dead... killed by a mage."

Samantha began to fidget with the rings on her fingers. What new terrible tragedy had magic been responsible for? What kind of horror could two people – one mage and a Champion – bring to the world? The images of Innley's horrible green eyes were burned into the back of her psyche, coming back to life with her fear. Maybe one mage was all it took. They had taken Corbinian. Would they take Sebastian, too? Would they come for her and Goran?

She looked around the room, which was as dark from the closed curtains that blocked out the Maker's heat, and with it, His light. "What if—?"

"Don't think about that, Sammie," Goran urged, running a shaky hand over his chin. "Don't think about it." After a pause, he called to his squire. "Colin, find Prince Regent Garrity and bring him here."

The boy turned on his heels and disappeared from sight faster than anyone could blink.

Samantha sat down next to the Goran on the sofa, unable to think as her memory played on her fears. She remembered the loud booms from the city – yes! She would likely hear some kind of warning before any violence erupted. She turned back to the window, to the Circle Tower, watching and waiting, straining to hear that warning, imagining that it could be anything: a sound, a bell, a scream. But nothing came. There was only the sound of the birds chirping, a faint breeze that rustled the trees whose limbs clacked against the window's glass, and the sing-song voices of the servants in the gardens, and through it all, the tick-tocking of the clocks marked the time as it passed.

Eventually, Samantha turned back around and was surprised to see the Lord Garrity already in the room – had she been so distracted that she had missed his arrival? She stood up immediately and curtsied.

"Forgive my manners—" she started, but Goran interrupted, and that meant he was nervous.

"Sammie, it's okay." He was pacing the room, moving here and there and back again, speaking fast and impatiently to Lord Garrity like they had been in mid-conversation. "I think the first thing we need to do is secure the city. Post guards at every gate. We need to know who comes in and goes out."

Lord Garrity nodded. He was standing calmly near a bottle of brandy, a half-filled glass already in hand. Samantha was glad that the Eberstarks had departed a tenday earlier. She greatly enjoyed their visits, but was glad they were safe in their own palaces or estates or wherever military leaders lived.

Lord Garrity spoke slowly, his voice steady and calm as Goran snapped his fingers for Colin to take notes. "Good idea, my young prince. You must also secure the castle." Lord Garrity said, hooking his thumb over his belt "Post extra guards at every entrance and secure every window. If there are tunnels underneath the grounds, those must be secured as well. You cannot leave any way into the palace unchecked."

"Yes, ser."

The Prince Regent scratched his whiskers thoughtfully. "You'll need your armor and a weapon if you're trained."

"I'm not," Goran said, and he sounded worried about that.

Lord Garrity just nodded in understanding. "Then keep a guard with you at all times. And write letters immediately. You need a plan to send them should anyone breach the palace so that your allies know the city is no longer yours. Perhaps small servants disguised as runaway children can make it out of the city better than your riders."

Goran's brows knotted together. "Children?"

Lord Garrity held up a finger. "There are many things people don't see when they're looking for something else."

"Right," Goran said thoughtfully. "That's a good idea."

Remembering her dream, the doorway to her estate blocked by the demon, Samantha stood up, her hair bouncing away from her shoulders. "You'll need an escape plan."

Both Goran and Lord Garrity turned to her, surprised. Goran said nothing, or at least he paused, but Lord Garrity spoke first. "The Prince of Starkhaven does not run."

"You'll do Starkhaven no good if you're dead," she said, certain that the worry in her eyes was plain to see.

She and Goran watched each other. The tree limbs clacked against the window, and the birds chirped, and the servants outside still sang in the distance, but for one eternal second, Samantha thought the clocks had stopped ticking. Finally, Goran turned to Colin and said, "Rylan shall be my guard. Inform him that he is to pack a bag with the prince's seal and set it just inside the southeast tunnels, those closest to my family's wing. We shall make our way there if necessary."

Colin scribbled furiously and Lord Garrity sighed in obvious annoyance. "Your Highness, you cannot abandon—"

Goran spoke over him. " _Surviving_ is my priority, Lord Regent. Not for myself, but for Starkhaven. Sammie is right; Starkhaven needs a Vael who is fit to rule. If the palace is overrun and I have to organize some sort of... coup to retake my own city... then, I will."

Goran had not run before, but no one in the room could disagree that the last time the palace had been infiltrated, he had guilelessly survived by hiding in a closet. He was right; Starkhaven needed him, and had likely only survived the years since the Vaels’ demise because of him. He may have been craven seven years ago, but so much had changed. Perhaps it was his thickheadedness that drove him to face his fears, to see only one option: _Prince_ Goran Vael. He had once told Samantha that he had had no choice, but never once had she heard him say that he didn't think he could do it.

Goran then said, "I need to call the council."

"Ah, yes." Lord Garrity seemed surprised, but impressed.

"I need to tell them before they find out," Goran mumbled. "And cut them off before they try and take over the city."

"They can't do that! Can they?" Samantha asked hopefully; she had cleverly avoided learning anything about the inner workings of Starkhaven's Governing Council in the five years since she had moved into the palace, and now she was wondering if that had been wise.

"Only if they felt the prince wasn't safeguarding the city as is his responsibility," Lord Garrity explained. "By giving them this news and then telling them what's being done, he's effectively cutting them off. They'll have no power."

Samantha huffed; always with politics! Even in times of tragedy!

"I don't make the rules," he said apologetically.

Goran turned to Lord Garrity and bowed formally. "Thank you, ser. Your guidance in this matter is greatly appreciated." He started to walk towards the door, calling back: "We should convene the council now..."

Lord Garrity bowed deeply but surprised Goran by saying, "Your Highness, you mean that _you_ should convene the council now."

Stopping at the door, the Prince of Starkhaven turned around slowly, his confused expression speaking for him, but Lord Garrity just smiled.

"I think you don't need a Regent anymore," the man said, walking up to Goran and placing a hand on his shoulder.

Goran swallowed hard, and looked back to Samantha, his expression somewhere between fear and pride. She would always remember that moment: the moment he truly became the Prince of Starkhaven.

Goran extended his hand, which Lord Garrity grasped heartily. When he spoke, the prince sounded formal, and maybe a little shaky. "I thank you, ser, for the great service you have done the city and the throne. You have performed admirably and honestly... And I will never forget the things you said."

Lord Garrity grinned with everything he had, obviously moved by Goran's ceremony. "Until you, I'd never a met a man who could be skilled in any profession he chose. You're ready to do this on your own."

"Thank you, ser." Goran smiled, and it was beautiful.

Lord Garrity bowed deeply before his departure, but Goran still left Samantha alone in the room without saying anything. He was too preoccupied to adhere to decorum, though she supposed his poor manners would probably never improve.

The Circle Tower was still quiet, and the birds were still chirping. Other than the sing-song voices of the servants outside, she heard no sounds, no bells, and no screams. Mages flying on dragons didn't erupt from the tower's ramparts, and no black smoke billowed into the lovely blue summer sky. It was like the world didn't know about the horrible events that were taking place. Horrible events like demonic possession and torture. Was Sebastian lying crumpled up within the rubble of Kirkwall's Chantry, his forehead stained with soot and his robes caked with his own blood? Her imagination was fueled by her nightmares, and instinctively, her hands reached for the table to steady herself. Instead of finding the smooth polished oak table, she found parchment.

She looked down and discovered that Goran had left Keis' letter behind. Acting on their own, her fingers curled around the edges of the paper, her wrists turning to lift the letter, and she had to pause at every word to read it – Keis really needed to work on her handwriting – for the scribbles that danced unevenly across the page were nearly illegible. Samantha's mind quieted down, her nerves began to steady, and she found that by concentrating on the letter, she could make out a few phrases.

_Antiva... slaver camp in ruin... explosion... questioned... Corbinian escaped with... a trail... West... the Hundred Pillars... can't make the... we'll check... Marothius... Hanavhalla... Perivantium, Arevio..._

Samantha couldn't actually read the names of the cities, but recognized enough of the letters to understand some of them, and stringing the phrases together gave her an idea of what Keis meant. It seemed to Samantha that Keis had arrived at the slaver camp to find it in ruins – that much was clear. Something had exploded. Perhaps there was confusion afterwards, and perhaps during that confusion, Corbinian had escaped. Maybe he’d had help, maybe not. Keis had followed his trail west until she couldn’t follow it anymore, because the trail led into the mountains: the Hundred Pillars. The mountain range to the north that cut between Antiva and Tevinter was so named for the naturally occurring juts of rock that made the terrain there so jagged and unmanageable; it was virtually impassable, there was rarely a point of going through it – only around it. It was also covered in ice for the better part of the year. Every year. If that's where Keis thought Corbinian had gone, then that was worse than the swamps! Why would he go in there? Was he being chased? Did he have a choice? The uncertainty about his reasons turned Samantha's skin inside out, sensitizing her to the mildest irritation, and she spied the bottle of brandy on the other side of the room. Dulling her senses sounded appealing.

As she crossed the rug again, she thought about the list of cities. Keis had given a long list of at least fifteen cities and small towns surrounding the Hundred Pillars that she was going to check. Samantha understood her logic. If Corbinian made it out, then certainly he would need to find help. Or maybe, whoever he was with would take him there, or someone in the town may have run into him in the mountain range and recognize him from a drawing.

 _Survive this, Beenie_ , she silently prayed, sending her thoughts halfway across the world. _Survive this and come home to me_.

Samantha poured a thimbleful of brandy into a small square glass – just enough to burn her eyes – and downed it quickly.

From across the room, the Circle Tower still stood tall, white, and clean, and the birds still chirped, ignorant of the Maker that had cursed them all. His First Children. His Second Children. His world that was His.

Samantha closed her eyes and thought about Goran. Maybe Ser Rayce had been right, and Andraste had stopped pleading for them. But maybe they didn't need a Maker to watch over them anymore. Maybe they all just needed to survive what was to come, shuffling through the blackened smoke and dusty debris, emerging into the wide open world where the Maker's light shone regardless of who was standing there.

Maybe the purpose wasn't just to make it out of the darkness, but to live once they made it through.


	38. 9:36 Dragon, Summer

**9:36 Dragon, Summer**

_I drag the back of my hand across my lip, and spit blood into the dirt. I don't have much time to recover, because those thick fists are flying at me again. I duck somewhat successfully, but that last hit hurt and my eye is starting to swell. I step to the side, avoiding another swing that whooshes by too closely, and drive my good shoulder into his stomach. It's like running into a bag of rocks. He barely stumbles back before he finds his footing and wraps his meaty arms around my shoulders. We stagger back and forth, and when he jerks me sharply to the left, I grunt in pain. I can't help it. My shoulder is killing me. He tightens his grip, and in response, I drive my legs into the ground, kicking up the dirt around us, trying to push him back, to push him down. But there's no pushing him down. When the Maker made the Qunari, He built them to withstand the strongest of men._

_I don't know how many fights I've been in. I don't know how many months have passed. The days blur together as I am made to fight again and again._

_The memory of how I got here is fuzzy. I remember the magister, Halcinus, and his entourage, Senestra's gruesome death, and Liam's destructive outburst. But after that, things get a bit hazy. The next thing I remember is waking up in a quiet chamber in a bed layered with silk sheets underneath a blanket stuffed full of goose feathers. On the side table were several plates of rich food: fine cuts of meat, brilliantly prepared vegetables, fresh fruits, and even something sweet to finish the meal. They even left a bottle of wine. Being that I was starving, I scarfed all of it down in a most uncivilized fashion. My stomach had a fit that night, because my body had been inadvertently tamed by the bland flavors of survival. There is no blackberry and port sauce to drizzle over duck in the wild. No cakes or éclairs, no thick mango and cream pureed into a glass to drink._

_I thought I had been saved, but that was naïve. Saviors don't lock up the people they rescue. For weeks, I saw only guards, healers, and more guards. When I finally met my jailers, tall men in long robes holding twisted staves, I knew then that this was worse than the Crows. I was under the thumb of slavers yet again, but the threat of magic is greater than swords._

_Over the weeks, or maybe it was months, they prepared me, strengthened me up for the fighting pit. Just like they did to countless others. I used to wonder why they fed us so well, why they fussed over healing us completely, and why they would go to such lengths to make our stay so hospitable. Perhaps they thought of themselves as civilized slavers. Perhaps they thought they could charm us into complacency – for some, it probably worked. However, I recognized even then that it was far more likely they saw the value in preserving that which brought them coin._

_Judging from the crowd I’m in front of now, we bring in a fair share of it._

_The Qunari and I shuffle to the right and the crowd roars, a distant din. We lurch to the left, and my feet start to give way against the thick clay beneath – his strength is too much! I feel myself slipping and, right before my knees buckle, a bolt of lightning shoots down from the clear blue sky. It scorches the earth just to our right, and the Qunari and I both start. Bloody magisters and their so-called_ enhanced _pit fights._

_I've known all my life that I would fight. That I would lead men and women to fight. But I never once thought that I would grow weary from it. I worry that all this fighting has grated against me for so long that my heart has turned coarse, like sanding paper. Is this what happens to warriors who see too much death? The more I fight, the less I feel._

_The magisters throw a succession of fireballs that roll through the pit, searing the hairs off my arms and I turn my head away from the heat. Above this red pit of clay, I hear the screaming throngs of men, women, and children. I look back to the Qunari, who bares his teeth. Yet I feel numb. I've seen some of the fighters take their anger and resentment over being here out on their opponent. But I look at this proud Qunari and see another Emilio, the slaver I killed when Liam and I escaped the Crows. We're opposing pawns in a chess game played by one person. I feel no anger towards him. But I feel no mercy towards him, either._

_A gust of wind blows in from our right, and we both lean into it, diving for each other again, our fists flying and our bodies twisting. I move on instinct, keeping my eyes on his hips and his shoulders, watching for signs of his next move until he lunges for me, but his red-stained feet slip in the clay. His legs are spread too wide, and I react savagely, taking advantage of his misstep by lifting my foot into the air, and driving it down onto the outside of the Qunari's knee._

_I fall backwards onto the clay when he lets loose a roar that echoes throughout the pit, swirling around with the dust into the cheering stadium above us. He collapses, holding his right knee, screaming bloody murder. It must be excruciating. His knee is bent inward in a way that is not natural. Without magic, it could be a year before he walks normally again. But we are not spared from magic._

_The gong sounds. The match is over. There are no winners._

_I have only a moment before the guards come and drag me away. I use it to take a breath, to remember who I am. To feel something. I look up at the cloudless sky and imagine that I am back in Sammie's gardens with her head resting on my throbbing shoulder. I try to forget about the crowd and the screaming Qunari and hear only Sammie's beautiful voice chatting away about her brother and the Circle. That's who I am. I am a Vael. I am not a monster. I am a Vael._

_Two pairs of rough, metal-clad hands grip my shoulders, and I wince and gasp for breath and lament how they always go for the shoulder. I am dragged upwards and pushed out of the sunshine and into the dark. Beneath my feet, the red lay transitions into slate-grey stone, and I struggle to adjust to the dimly lit hallway. I can't seem to catch my breath, and the pinching pain in my side suggests that the Qunari cracked one of my ribs. Also, I can't see very well; one of my eyes has swollen completely shut. But nothing hurts as badly as my shoulder, which sends jolts of sharp pain down my arm._

_First, I am brought to a holding chamber where I am can be properly chained back up with shackles around my wrists and ankles, and a muzzle. Yes, a muzzle. It's my own fault. Biting that healer wasn't one of my proudest moments. But when you are treated like an animal for so long, you start to feel like one. It was yet another in a long series of attempts at escape. I wasn't the first and I won't be the last and yet, though they know it will change nothing, our food and fine linens are taken away at every attempt. And while we're starving, sleeping on the dirty floor, they still force us into that pit to bludgeon each other into submission while they hang magic over our heads._

_It's funny; the Crows were easier in a way. You could refuse to work in the mines and all they could really do was beat you down – not that torture is easy to endure. But here... Anyone without magic is subject to those who have it. The Crows may have broken my legs and branded marks into my skin, but the magisters could fry my brain into mush if they wanted. All that I am would cease to be. That's worse than broken bones and burn marks. That's worse than death._

_It is a monotonous existence and though it feels as if my stay has been relatively short, I've seen many men turn demented, and I know that I, too, could lose myself to this. That's why I keep trying to remember who I am. As they buckle the straps around the back of my head, I close my eyes and conjure memories of brunches and parks, trips to Kirkwall or Nevarra City, Sammie's blue underwear... Liam and I howling into the mountain wind. I try to remember what music sounds like. There was an opera my mother loved... what was it?_

_The metal is heavy against my wrists and ankles and they make me walk, or rather shuffle down another hallway to the healing chamber. The Qunari is already here, but he isn't shackled like me, rather strapped down to a table. A guard and a healer are holding him down as he thrashes about – his knee must be killing him. Another healer waves his glowing blue hands over the Qunari's knee, and the swelling begins to shrink. After a few minutes, it'll look almost normal._

_The guards push me onto a nearby table, and I slump down and close my good eye. I wonder how Liam is doing. I haven't seen him since that night he destroyed that inn. I wonder if they've sent him off to some magi college—_

_Someone yells and I open my unswollen eye to see the Qunari, a hand on each of the healer's heads, right as he bashes them together. There's a horrible thud, like two mounds of wet clay slapping together. The mages slump to the ground, landing on the guard who was holding the Qunari to the table; he's already down, bleeding from the head. Both of the other guards draw their swords, but only one advances on the Qunari, who readies himself for a confrontation._

_They say luck is another word for the Maker's hand. I never would have imagined that the Maker would guide a Qunari to bash the skulls of two Tevinter mages together just for me, but I never look a gift horse in the mouth, either._

_I jump from the bed, still muzzled and bound, crashing into the other guard and knocking his sword from his hand. We tumble to the floor in a heap. He tries to get up, but I ram my shoulder – Maker have mercy, my shoulder! – into his chest and he grunts, falling back to the floor. I awkwardly climb atop him, and though he tries to push against my legs, I am leaning into him with all my weight, driving my knees into his neck. He claws at me and his jostling causes his helmet to fall off. I can see that he can't breathe, his brown eyes bulging from his beet-red face. He grips my thighs, and I have to work hard to keep my balance as his shoulders shake back and forth. I close my eyes again, willing him to pass out so these terrible seconds can be over with._

_I am not a monster. I am not a monster._

_I hear noises coming from behind me, and turn to see the Qunari pulling the guard's sword from the man's chest. He walks to me, enormous and cruel, and just when I think he's going to murder me, too, he tosses a set of keys on the floor in front of me. Right before he walks out the door, he says, Don't follow me._

_Right. Don't follow the murderous Qunari out onto the streets of Tevinter. Got it._

_It takes some doing, but I manage to undo the shackles around my wrists, and after I undo the shackles around my ankles and peel off the muzzle, I find some healing potions in one of the cabinets and down them quickly. My eye opens up, I can take a breath, and my side no longer hurts. Near the ceiling on one of the walls is a long mirror. They use it to watch us, in case we have handmade daggers or rocks hidden behind our backs. I've always tried not to look in that mirror, but in this moment, I can't help looking up._

_I've caught glimpses of myself over the years, warped reflections in teapots, a slice of my blurry likeness in a sword. But I am not prepared for my true self. My rough skin is such a deep brown that I look more Nevarran than Havener. I also look older. Hardened. The hand in the mirror moves – my hand – and it's like looking at one of those little books that you flip through and the image stutters into motion. My hand goes to my hair, the tips of which tickle the tops of my shoulders. It's no longer a deep auburn, instead sandy and streaked with gold. The Maker apparently forced His Light into me in whatever way He could. I have so many scars... Once I get home, will anyone recognize me?_

_The hand in the mirror moves again, this time to wipe the blood splatter from my face._

_I am not a monster. I am not. I am not._

_I can't stay here. I have to get out before someone finds me. My first thought is to grab the guard's gear and walk out of here, but... I'm in Tevinter. My gaze shifts to the mages on the floor in their clean robes. There's a staff leaning against the wall in the far corner. Before I can change my mind, I pull the robe over my head, grab that big stick, and bolt out the door._

_I make it past two sets of guards who all look to the ground in deference as I pass. I know the tunnels quite well, and I navigate them around and around until I come to the main entrance. The guard glances back, and gives me a double look before scrambling to open the gate. He fumbles with the lever, apologizing profusely for making me wait. He's terrified. I feel sick to my stomach, which probably comes off as disgust at his ineptitude. Like all the others so far, he looks away from my face the whole time._

_I step onto the cobblestone street and try to act natural, wondering if that crazy Qunari is drawing the attention of the city guard. The street is bustling with people, which could be good or bad, depending on who decides to look at me. Most aren't looking. My mind starts to stumble through a list of needs. I need to get out of here... wherever here is. Okay, first, I need to find out where I am. Next, I need a way out. I need to find Liam—_

_Liam! I feverishly look up to the horizon, tracing the circumference of the skyline until I see the tallest building in the city. It must be the mage's college. It must be. But how in the world am I going to get in? I can't just walk in—wait, yes I can! I'm dressed like a mage! I could get in, find out where Liam is – he could be anywhere in this country – and then get him out. I can't leave without him. I gave him my word._

_I place one foot in front of the other, walking through the streets of some Tevinter city. I hear people talking, the sizzling of food hitting hot pans, laughter. Colorful awnings curl over every doorway, and every time one opens, I can hear the tinkling of bells. There are all kinds of people on the street. Tall, short, elf, dwarf, pink, brown, all shuffling in and out of the numerous quaint little shops that line the street. In Starkhaven, we are all dark-skinned, dark hair, light eyes, and tall. We know foreigners by the shade of their skin, by the subtleties of their accents. But here, there are too many differences. Too many voices. How does anyone ever know anything about anybody in this town?_

_I reach the end of a block to find myself on a hill. I can see across the city. It's amazing; the city goes on and on, as far as I can make out. Grey and black and brown stones stack high and square, taller and taller, stretching upwards towards the heavens. This is the largest city I've ever been in. Larger than Starkhaven. Larger than Orlais. For a moment, I fear that I'm in Minrathous, but that's not right. I can see the shoreline, and the infamous giant stone barrier that surrounds Minrathous is not there. That means I am someplace else. Another stroke of luck. My thoughts drift back to Liam. I must find Liam._

_I take a brisker pace to my destination, but the more I walk through this city, the more nervous I feel. Aside from the fact that I am an escaped slave in a town ruled by magic, and nevermind that I am recognizable by at least one magister and his contingent of guards, but how many people may recognize me from the fighting pit? I cannot be seen. I cannot be recognized. But maybe I won't be. So far, everyone has looked away from me. I remember my reflection in that mirror; my hair, my scars, and this ridiculous robe. I look around to the bustling group of women emerging from a bread shop, laughing in conversation. This is just a city, a place like any other; it simply has a different set of rules._

_I practice acting natural, but I feel about as natural as a man wearing a dress. It's rather awkward, to be honest. There's an uncomfortable draft and I feel nearly naked. I don't see how women, let alone mage men, wear these things._

_The college is an imposing four-sided and tiered building made of black stone and iron. The tall windows that line the building give me a hint about what goes on inside a Tevinter mage's college. Some rooms are aglow in a rainbow of colors. Others have the windows open – open! At a mage's tower! Part of me expects mages to fly from those windows on the backs of drakes, spitting acid on us poor souls below. But that was just a story that I read as a child and couldn't possibly be real. It's ridiculous that I have to tell myself that._

_I walk to the college's door, which is unguarded. I can play by this city's rules, but I don't know if I can pretend that they aren't strange. With a deep breath, I push the door open much too easily. It's surprisingly lightweight. Two mages—a man and a woman—are standing by a podium near the doorway. They wear wicked black robes with thigh-high slits in the leg and steep angles around the shoulders. They look almost like they're in costume; but then again, I feel that way about Orlesians most of the time. Seemingly annoyed with her job, the woman opens a thick book on the podium and looks over to me expectantly._

_Right. Here we go._

_I offer a bow, and because there is nothing I can do to hide my accent, I tell them I'm from the Starkhaven Circle, on a quest for First Enchanter Raddick. They just nod resignedly, scribbling something into the book as though thoroughly bored. How many mages in the world visit this place, I wonder? Judging by these mages’ behavior, it must be a common occurrence, if a dull one. I ask them where I may find the library. The man has already turned away from me, and the woman derisively points in the direction of the hallway to my right. I offer my thanks in general Starkhaven custom, with another bow, which prompts her to roll her eyes. Neither of them spoke a single word to me during our interaction._

_I try to relax the grip on this staff. It feels hot under my hand. Bloody magic._

_I arrive in the library, which is a room that puts every library that I have ever seen to shame. Even the library at the Starkhaven Circle. This room, if you can call it a room, is essentially the entire first floor of this building. It stretches back as far as the city block, and then turns at the corner. There are more books here than at every library in Starkhaven combined. The rugs are more plush than any rug in the Starkhaven palace, and there is a giant mural on the inside wall which depicts, as far as I can tell, the obviously skewed history of Tevinter. Goran would marvel at the seamless artistic transitions between eras; Andraste's Exalted March, the formation of the Imperial Chantry, even depictions of specific heroes from that ageless war with the Qunari. It's simply marvelous. And this isn't even Minrathous!_

_Incredible, isn't it? A female voice says from behind me._

_I whirl around, unprepared, feeling exposed, but instead of a maleficar abomination or demon, I find myself face to face with a small woman. A mage, obviously. She's short, brunette, with lightly freckled pale skin, a rounded chin, and great big dark eyes. They are so dark, that I can't tell if she has pupils. It's sort of creepy. Her deep blue and silver embroidered robe is far more elaborate than my drab grey woolen dress, which hangs unfashionably just below my knees. I'm considerably taller than the dead mage who wore this before me. She lifts an eyebrow at my robe, and with a confused expression asks me, in Tevinter affect, where I'm from. I stumble over my cover story: Starkhaven, quest, First Enchanter. She just nods like she's heard it a million times. I tell her my name is Alexsander and she says her name is Rebekha, and then she asks what I think of the mural._

_Thank the Maker my brother is an artist. I talk about the brush strokes, the use of dark and light colors to make the transition between images nearly impossible to tell, and how impressive it is that the mural covers the height of the wall to tell the story. I bear no love for this country, but the history is rich and whoever painted this mural captured the details with amazing perfection._

_She laughs and steps closer, pointing to hidden pictures, and I can't hide how impressed I am. And then she smiles at me._

_Maker! She's flirting with me!_

_It's been a long time since a girl has flirted with me, and I can't say I've ever interacted with a mage this way. What if she casts some love spell on me? Stay calm, Beenie. Do what you have to do to get through this. So, with a breath of Tevinter air in my lungs, I look down to her and smile back – the Vael smile. The smile I've always reserved for Samantha. And it works. She flushes and looks away, seemingly flattered. Maybe today is my lucky day, after all._

_My swordmaster's voice comes back to me, telling me that I can do this, that I am strong and people will listen to me, but I have to believe in myself first. I will my hands to stop shaking behind my back as I casually ask her about her duties at the college, and she tells me that her main job is to evaluate the effectiveness of the curriculum. I don't fully understand until she tells me that this is a magi college for children, whom she refers to as_ little monsters. _She means it as a joke, I think, but I can't help feeling that it may be an apt description._

_Thinking of Liam, I gently prod her for information about the early education of magic, because, as she may well know, education in the Orlesian Circle is a little different. She chuckles, making another joke about how children are the same everywhere, but here in Tevinter, all the little boys and girls are given the freedom to learn at their own pace. To develop their skills naturally._

_Natural skills, she says. What's natural about harboring demons? What's natural about cutting yourself open and using your blood to kill people? What's natural about affecting the emotions of others? I try very hard to hide my fear and revulsion, instead smiling again and saying I would love to see her work, you know, so that I may bring these ideas back to my home. Rebekha seems so pleased that I feel sort of bad for using her this way. But then I remember that she's a mage. She would probably kill me on the spot if she knew I wasn't one too._

_She leads me up several flights of stairs, down a few hallways and around a few corners, and at every turn there is something else to inspire. This building is old, and looks like it has stood for centuries; the high ceilings, dark wood, and stone contrasted with bronze and gold mark it as a classic Tevinter structure. It's perhaps because of all this majesty that, the further up we go, the more anxious I get. What if there are mages here who can sense those people with or without magic? I've heard of such mages who have extraordinary abilities like Liam – and I start to feel even more exposed. Be confident in your swing, my swordmaster always said. Be confident. Eventually we reach the classrooms, where Rebekha digs through a desk, bringing out a sheaf of papers._

_I look around the empty classroom, noting that the sun is beginning to set, and ask where the children are. She laughs again at the differences between "our" Circles, and tells me they are all out experiencing their own gifts, learning magic in the world. She makes this place sound like a nursery but a Tevinter mages’ college is no coddling commune. It's the world's capital for blood mages. Sure, they publicly denounce it, but everyone in Thedas knows that every Tevinter mage is a practicing maleficar._

_I need to find out if Liam is here or someplace else, but how do I ask? I remember that some mages run away to Tevinter when the threat of Tranquility hangs over their heads. There are only a few reasons why a mage would be turned Tranquil, and magic like Liam's is one of those reasons. Rebekha lifts another stack of papers from a drawer and smiles like she may have found what she is looking for, but I haven't found the answers I need yet. I try to sound casual when I ask her about mages who run away from the Orlesian Circle to Tevinter._

_How do they know where to go? I ask._

_Well, if they survive the Silent Plains, then there is only one place the children go: here! She smiles ruefully._

_Though Rebekha is pleasant enough, I can't really tell if she likes children or not, which strikes me as odd considering her work. In any case, it takes me another hour to get rid of her, telling her I must get to my own work finding that research for my quest. She points me some direction or another after I babble something about directed dreaming._

_As I re-enter the library, I can't help but wonder if Andraste is guiding me. Is it just coincidence that the children come to the same city that houses the gambling and fighting pit? Or is it providence that has kept me and Liam in the same city?_

_It's several hours before the children return, and when they do, they are so loud that I wouldn't be surprised if the whole city block hears it. No wonder they put them all in the same place; I can't imagine controlling this many little mage children across the country. They stomp by, giggling, and the uneven tenor of their voices drowns out the bustling sounds of the city streets._

_I huddle behind a bookcase, watching the children file past – Andraste preserve them, they are so young. So small. Some too small for their robes. They don't carry staves, but instead little twisted sticks, waving them around, laughing and pretending to cast spells. Girls. Boys. There are so many of them... and they're all mages... I have a fleeting thought of Innley. If this had been his life, if he had run away to here, how would he be different? I wonder again where he is, and how he is doing. But thoughts of my old friend don't linger because Liam walks right passed me._

_I say his name reactively, and then in a fit of panic, comically duck back behind the bookcase. He turns around, his laughter with the other children fading away as he scours the hall. I peek out from around the bookcase and wave, and the sheer joy that blankets me is enough to make all this worry melt away._

_He's okay! He looks better than okay – he looks healthy. Someone has given him a haircut and a bath, and he looks like a boy again, with puffy cheeks and soft skin. The lines between his eyes are gone._

_I don't know if it's him or me that prompts my laughter, but I don't care and he runs over to my open arms, leaping into my embrace._

_You're here, he says in wonder._

_You know me, I say with a smile. You've grown._

_It's been a year, he whispers._

_That's like a punch to the gut. A year? Liam and I have lost an entire year to this? I'm glad he's not facing me, because I don't want Liam to see how painful that is. I stand up, and say, Let's get out of here, but he looks momentarily pensive and then tells me he needs to get something from his chamber. I don't know if I'm allowed up there, but he insists and pulls me along._

_He drags me back up the stairs and down the twisting hallways, and I keep my eyes open for Rebekha, nervous that I'll run into her again and have to explain what I'm doing with Liam. Finally, we come to a rather small but nice chamber. The bed isn't made, the standing bureau is half open, and there are opened books strewn across a desk. Next to the books are a quill and an unrolled sheet of parchment with some words painstakingly printed in splotchy ink. This isn't his prison... it's his room._

_When I turn around, Liam is holding a small satchel. He thrusts it out to me. Take it, he says._

_Confused, I ask, What is it?_

_A wave of sadness rolls over me as he starts babbling, telling me how he's been saving up coin, buying things in town, putting together a bag for me, intending to come and get me out of that pit as soon as he figured out how, but now I'm here! He hadn't even heard of my escape, and I am fairly shocked that he assumed he_ would _hear of it._

_I had to come get you first, I say. I gave you my word._

_His bottom lip quivers. He whispers, You said you would take me to where I wanted to go._

_Right, I tell him. I still will. But he says nothing. Wait. Wait a minute. Liam. You're not... staying here._

_Little tears form in the corners of his eyes as he shakes the small satchel in his hands, intending for me to take it. I feel something too complex to immediately identify, but after a second, it starts to feel like resolution._

_Wait, what? Is he seriously going to stay here? In Tevinter? This lawless, bloody, barbaric, slave-run country? I don't want him to stay here!_

_Incredulous, I set the hot staff against the wall and kneel down to argue with him, to tell him that he can't stay, but Liam talks over me, his sobs growing louder: I thought I killed you in that room! I thought I killed you! I thought I killed you!_

_As quick as a firecracker, Liam's shame explodes in my chest. There's revulsion and guilt and many more emotions that weigh tremendously on his small shoulders. Senestra and Desh. All those men at the mine. Probably his parents... My parents are gone, but if I had been the one who killed them..._

_Magic is a terrible thing. It turns men into monsters, and makes us beg for more._

_You don't understand this place, I say forcefully. This isn't a good city, and the mages here are not your friends. You can learn to control this without them!_

_A voice from the doorway interrupts us: He cannot._

_Both of us jump up and turn to the door, which frames a slender man with a shock of brown hair. His robe is dark, and even if he wasn't giving me that amused expression that he gave me back at the inn, I would still recognize him._

_Halcinus speaks to me directly when he says, He is but a child. He has killed everyone close to him, and will continue to kill everyone close to him if he doesn't learn how to manage his gifts._

_His_ gifts _. What kind of Maker would give a child the ability to brutally slaughter a roomful of people and call it a gift?_

_No, I insist hoarsely, and then the words tumble from my mouth with more conviction than I've ever spoken them: The only reason to fear a mage is if a mage fears you._

_I'm not afraid here, Liam says quietly._

_I... But... No... No, Liam... not you too. Maker, don't take him from me, too. I've lost everyone. I've lost everything. I've been fighting so hard for so long, trying to get it all back, and now I'm losing the one good thing that has emerged from all this... this hell. How many times had I wished to be rid of Liam, to be free from his curse of magic, not to have to worry about waking up to the glowing, green eyes of a monster? And now... now there is nothing but regret for all that wasted time._

_It's the height of irony that here, in a Tevinter mage's college, my fear of Liam simply dissolves. Perhaps for the first time, my fear_ for _him trumps all of it. Oh, and it burns. I am burning. I finally understand what Halden meant. Liam has reached his hand out to me for so long, and out of fear, I never grasped it. Maybe if I could have controlled my fear more, maybe if I could have learned to trust him... maybe he wouldn't want to stay here. Maybe he wouldn't think that this was the only way._

_Halcinus leans on the doorframe and casually says, I've summoned the guards. I estimate that you have about a five-minute head start. Consider it a courtesy._

_No! No more guards! No more slavery! No more of this hell! The urgency to escape energizes me. I extend my hand to Liam but he doesn't move. Come on, Liam! We have to go!_

_He says, I don't want to be this way._

_I can't hide my desperation, the fear and panic of getting caught yet again, and the urgency to leave. But to leave without him? I kneel back down, placing my hands on his shoulders and my voice cracks when I say, You are my brother._

_My brother, he whispers sadly._

_The guards will be here any minute, but how can I leave? It's my duty to shield him from all of this, to tell him that it's wrong – a sin! – and that he can't possibly understand what to do with this kind of power. But the argument in my head falls flat. Didn't I kill a slaver in self defense? Didn't Liam do the same thing in the mine and at the inn? I used a sword. Liam used his magic. Is there a difference between us? I suppose that I chose to wield to sword. I chose to fight. Maybe Halcinus was right. Maybe choices are a luxury that mages don't have._

Run _, Liam whispers, frantic for me to live._

_I say his name again, but this time it's a plea. I am begging him, a reversal from that day in the desert when he begged to come with me._

_Run, he says again, his mouth wavering, and I feel grateful that he is fighting back emotion over me. That I am not alone in the sadness of our parting ways._

_Through the helplessness that I feel, the fear of Liam and I going in different directions, and thinking about what may come next for both of us, I say, Don't let them control you._

_I won't, he says back, though I'm not really sure he understands what I mean._

_There's nothing more for me to do other than back away towards the door, snatch up the little bag Liam prepared for me and run my way back through the building. Rebekha looks perplexed when I sprint passed her, and the two mages in the front hallway curse at me in Tevene as I scramble out the front door._

_Liam is an apostate no longer, now a mage of Tevinter. He is my friend, my savior, and the reason that I was able to push myself through the mountains. I lived because I had him to live for. And he lived because of me. And now I am leaving him here... I told him I would never leave him. I am breaking another promise._

_The Maker may forgive me, because I don't know if I ever will._


	39. 9:37 Dragon, Winter

**9:37 Dragon, Winter**

"What are you going to do with _that_?" Arianna asked, scrunching her nose. She was staring in distaste at the glass case that housed Lady Pentaghast's gifted Death Watch Beetle.

Sophine whirled around on her cushion to spy the insect, her mouth forming a round _O_ in horror.

"I'm going to put it in the main room of my estate." Samantha waved her wine glass in the air. "And all the ladies who come for tea will have to stare at it."

Arianna couldn’t suppress her giggle. "You won't get anyone over twice."

"That's probably the idea," Benjamin Garrity said, staring at the beetle.

"You must be mad to keep that thing!" Sophine declared. Evidently, in Ansburg, the Death Watch Beetle was reviled. Perhaps because of the country's proximity to Antiva, the countries shared some cultural beliefs.

"Sammie's always been a little mad," Benjamin said, but then corrected himself: "In a good way."

On the heels of the news of the Kirkwall Chantry's destruction, another unbelievable horror had struck the world, this time in Orlais. Apparently, a dragon had made a fiery appearance at the Ten-Year Gathering. Unsurprisingly, a Pentaghast who also happened to be a Chantry Seeker had dispatched the beast, but not before it had nearly leveled the Divine's Chantry and killed two out of the eight visiting Grand Clerics! Francesca had escaped the calamity unharmed, but Knight Commander Rayce still blamed himself for not being there to watch over her. Samantha felt he was being too hard on himself, but perhaps that was a personality trait of his. A rogue apostate hell bent on destroying the Chantry was on the loose in the Free Marches, and Ser Rayce was needed in Starkhaven to secure the Circle and the Chantry. And so far, violence had not erupted, likely because of his and Goran's preparations.

Samantha's own nerves were a bit frayed from the news, and so with the world so full of lunatics and her Beenie trying to navigate through them – if he lived, which Goran swore he did – she needed distractions badly. Her family's business could only keep her attention for so long, because once all the letters were written, the ledgers updated, the lawyers consulted, there was naught to do but wait for the next round of investment activity. This seemed a rather dull occupation to Samantha, who always wondered what her father did and now saw how it suited his methodical personality perfectly. Inbetween her hours of written correspondence, Samantha frequently sought Arianna's company, who was a joy to be around. Her carefree attitude was just what Samantha needed. Benjamin's company was only tolerable in Arianna's presence, since conversation with him veered into his studies to become a lawyer just like his father. Samantha couldn't take listening to legal arguments about how Starkhaven needed to adopt some of Antiva's laws on marriage dissolution. He was a boy jaded by romantic disentanglements. On this day, Sophine was visiting as well; she and her mother were staying in Ansburg for the winter, which most of Starkhaven wondering when the date would be set for the crowning of the next Princess of Starkhaven. Vincent Tyler had accepted Samantha's invitation, much to her surprise and happiness, except he brought along his betrothed: unfathomably, Lady Taru Darfour the Morose from Orlais. But on this occasion, Taru didn't seem sad at all. She seemed... well, in love.

"Veen-ceent." Taru sighed his name like it was made of chocolate, holding out her empty goblet. She needed a refill of this year's Tyler Estate's syrah, a smooth yet strong wine with hints of lavender.

"Of course, my dear," Vincent said too-sweetly, cradling her glass like it was their love-child. He strode across the room triumphantly to the bar, where Samantha, Sophine, and Arianna had been standing. At his arrival, he asked them about Taru: "Isn't she lovely?"

"Oh, yes," Arianna said dramatically. "Lovely. I've not heard a finer Orlesian accent in my life."

"That's because she _is_ Orles—"

"We should throw her a party!" Arianna declared.

"No!" Vincent nearly yelled, throwing his hands out in front of him, but he quieted down when he said, "Taru hates parties."

 _Well, that would explain some things_ , Samantha thought, remembering her past rude behavior at several parties they had both attended. Goran's formal dinners and before that... before that... A party dressed in blue, chaotic and fun, before world's evil had taken away a piece of her naivety.

Sophine tilted her head in confusion. "What's the occasion for the gathering?"

"Her accent," Arianna purred. "Truly, it is without match."

Sophine giggled, but Vincent rolled his eyes, turning to fill Lady Taru's goblet. "Arianna, you're as devious as a witch of the wilds."

Arianna leaned forward suggestively. "Don't tempt me."

"What are you three threatening Vincent with?" Benjamin called over from his perch on the window.

"A party!" Arianna announced to the room.

They had gathered in the Prince's Royal Parlor, a room that rarely saw visitors. The walls were taller in this room than any other. Elaborate wall decorations and paneling displayed how important and extravagant the Vaels truly were. Or at least, how their legacy was. Goran hadn't redecorated in years, and the century-old tapestries were losing their vibrancy. Even so, the room was still bright even on such a cloudy day, mostly because all the candles in the room had been lit. The five chandeliers that hung silently over their heads held no less than twenty candles apiece. More candles glowed brightly from within the shining golden candelabras mounted between large portraits and obscured by display cases… one of which housed Samantha's Death Watch Beetle. In a tipsy fit of cheekiness, and with Arianna's encouragement, Samantha had requested that it be moved to this room, and Goran hadn't objected though he probably should have done. This was a formal room designed to entertain foreign dignitaries, after all.

Across the room, in a separate display case, sat Corbinian Vael's golden armor plate. No one asked about it. They probably assumed it belonged to a Vael of distance past, the last remnant of a heroic life. Samantha hoped it was the last. It stared at Samantha silently from across the room, and the more spirits she drank, the warmer it felt. Even from a distance. She liked to imagine a ghostly figure growing from the metal, spreading out with a soft glow. First the arm, then the shoulder, then his chest, and eventually his legs, too. He stood there, dimly lit in Samantha's imagination, smirking every so often, his arm stuck to the armor plate. Restrained to the corner of the house in which Samantha's heart lived.

Sophine kept politely commenting on the wine, and it took Samantha three comments before she realized that her friend was sending her not-so-subtle hints to stop staring at the armor plate. If the others caught her staring it, they might give it a closer consideration, and they just may see the initials: C.A.V. That would likely spawn questions that, on the Prince's request, neither of them were supposed to answer.

"Another party?" Benjamin complained. "Whose turn is it, anyway?"

Arianna pointed a giddy finger at Vincent, who shook his head feverishly. "No. No parties."

"Oh!" Arianna pouted.

"I'll throw the party, then," Samantha said, shooting a glance across the room to Corbinian's shadow, imagining him smiling approvingly at her subversion. "This palace could use more life."

Arianna clapped her hands together happily, and Benjamin laughed greatly before he said, "A party for the sake of it? At the palace? You're becoming more like a Vael every year."

Samantha looked down into her glass. Benjamin had meant it as a joke, but something about it pulled on Samantha's heart, for in there, she _was_ a Vael. She lifted a single finger, the rest wrapped around the wine glass, so that she could better see the ring that Corbinian had given her just over ten years ago, and silently wished he would come home already. Goran had spoken of him so often, so casually – _When he gets back... He'll be interested to learn... You can tell him I said that_ – that Samantha had been infected by his fervent belief that any day now, any moment now, Corbinian would simply walk up to the gates of Starkhaven, the bells ringing with announcement of a visitor, and just come home. Samantha looked across the room to Corbinian's ghost, who just smiled warmly.

"This wine is very... rich," Sophine announced.

"You probably don't have many wines like this in Ansburg," Vincent said proudly.

Sophine laughed unconvincingly, sputtering something that Samantha wasn't paying attention to but sounded like, "Oh, that's so true."

"Parties, pfeh!" Taru the In-Love said. "Small gatherings are better. More intimate. One may share secrets and swear loyalty oaths to never reveal them."

"Oooh! Secrets!" Arianna's eyes positively sparkled with delight. "We don't need a party for that! We can swear loyalty oaths right here. Right now."

Taru the Intrigued raised a thin brow. "You want to share secrets now?"

Sophine and Samantha exchanged a quick glance.

Benjamin laughed. "I'm in."

"I'm game," Vincent said quickly.

Sophine opened her mouth when the others turned to her, and with only a moment’s hesitation, she lifted her glass into the air and smiled. "Why not?"

All eyes turned to Samantha, who felt strongly that she would reveal too much by refusing. She snuck a glance at Corbinian's imaginary glowing figure and could have sworn that he was nodding to her mischievously. Whether it was because of him or the three glasses of wine, she said, "Okay. I'm in, too."

Arianna squealed with delight, settling down on one of the plush red velvet sofas, and Benjamin plopped down on a nearby cushion. Vincent and Taru were on another sofa, separated by mere centimeters. Sophine settled down next to Arianna, expertly avoiding the display case that housed Corbinian's armor plate. Samantha walked around the room towards one of the sofas, passing Corbinian's shadow, and it felt like she was passing a fireplace. Was she that affected by her wine?

"Who starts?" Benjamin asked, staring at Arianna.

Taru the Officiate said, "We start by swearing on the Maker's right hand, that whatever is said here does not leave this room, this company, and is never spoken of to another soul, living or dead."

A wide smile spread across Benjamin's face. "Oh, I swear."

"On the Maker's right hand!" Taru insisted.

"I swear on the Maker's right hand!" Benjamin said with mock seriousness.

Vincent raised his hand to his chest. "I swear on the Maker's right hand, too."

Arianna moved her hand to touch her forehead and then her chest; it was a common gesture of sincerity. "I swear on the Maker's right hand." And then she giggled.

"Why the right hand?" Samantha asked, trying to stall, but when Taru huffed, she rushed the words from her mouth: "I swear on the Maker's right hand."

Sophine downed her wine in one gulp, slapping her empty goblet on the table with a clang so loud that Taru jumped. "And I swear on the Maker's right hand."

The Orlesian maiden lifted a hand to her chest. "Is that how all oaths are sworn in Ansburg?"

Sophine shrugged. "Oaths aren't meant to be whispered."

Samantha's eyes flicked to Corbinian's imaginary figure. The Oath of Starkhaven had been always been taken with great fanfare, and she remembered how loud Corbinian's ceremony had been. Sophine was right; oaths were meant to be yelled for the whole world to hear.

"And I swear on the Maker's right hand," Taru said, still somewhat unsettled as she folded her small hands on her full skirt. "Now, I will start by telling one secret and the rest of you may make one comment each, but no more. I will choose, based on your comments, who tells next."

The rest nodded, and Samantha felt nervous. She was a terrible liar and, with Corbinian's too-warm armor plate across the room, she tried feverishly to think of a secret that didn't involve him.

Taru started, speaking with her perfect Orlesian accent: "My brother Paavo had a son with a whore. Just over ten years ago. That's why he didn't want me to date anyone. He was afraid that I would be careless. Like he was. He threatened to take away my inheritance, but I cannot live like that. Chastity is for brothers and sisters of the Chantry – not me. If Orlesian high society knew, our family would suffer."

Samantha's jaw went slack – a bastard child with a whore? What a scandal! Lady Preston would be positively aghast to learn that her nephew had fathered a child out of marriage – and with a whore!

"So, wait," Benjamin said, holding out his hand. "Why did he have this authority over you?"

"He is my brother. It is how it is done," Taru said simply. "Is that your comment?"

"No," Benjamin said quickly, and then said, "My comment is this: There's not much difference between you brother and that whore."

Taru let out a sweet burst of laughter, catching herself almost immediately, lifting a delicate hand to her pouty lips.

Arianna was giggling, too. "He's pretty good, though." Benjamin shot her a look that positively glowed jealousy and she laughed loudly. "At dancing, _scemo_."

Benjamin relaxed back against his cushion, trying to act normal but Samantha could see the relief on his face.

"I assume your brother did not marry this girl?" Sophine asked, and at her question, everyone in the room looked to her in shock.

"My brother would not marry a whore!" Taru declared, as though marrying the girl would have been a far greater crime than fathering a bastard child with her. "The dishonor would be too great."

"If he lived in Ansburg, my father would force him to marry the girl and support the child with his family's money. So, I guess that makes him fortunate to live in a place like Orlais!" Sophine smirked. "So, as long as he doesn't acknowledge the poor child, he won't lose his status." She then added, sarcastically, "Sort of works out for everyone, I guess."

"I... suppose," Lady Taru said, though she managed to look somewhat conflicted.

Samantha had to remind herself that Ansburg was a different sort of town.

"I didn't know that about your relationship with your brother," Vincent said to Taru gently. "It's not right that he has control over you. That's my comment."

 _This boy had to be the greatest sap in the history of Starkhaven_ , Samantha thought.

Taru nodded appreciatively, and then everyone in the room turned to Samantha, their wide eyes questioning her silently. Thoughts of her own brother swirled with judgments about Taru's family, about how they could abandon their own blood. _Innley_... She glanced across the room to Corbinian's armor plate, imagining him standing beside it, winking slyly. She could almost feel his hands covering hers, his breath on her ear, whispering the words that she should say.

She opened her mouth and said glumly, "I think your parents and my parents should have gotten together for tea. They would have gotten along famously."

Taru smiled, and nodded her head sadly. "Yes. Always with tradition. _Qui est tragique_. I am not sure I would feel nothing for my own child, but Paavo is not like me."

Arianna lifted her glass to her lips. "You know, now that I think of it, his dancing wasn't so great."

Benjamin cracked a smile, and the others chuckled softly. Samantha appreciated Arianna's attempts to lighten the conversation. This Orlesian Game of Secrets was serious business.

Taru then sat tall, surveying the group and said, "Based on your comments, Benji shall go now."

Benjamin glanced apprehensively around the room, his gaze lingering on Arianna. He started slowly. "I... haven't received my title and inheritance yet, because I haven't married," he finally said. "And if I don't find a bride before next summer, my parents are going to try and arrange one with some family from Orlais. I'm not even supposed to know."

Sophine asked Benjamin, "You don't want to marry?"

"Well..." He was trying very hard not to look at Arianna. "I could. I mean, marry a girl. In a Chantry. Anyway, it doesn't matter."

Arianna was beaming like the sun, as though she had expected no less an admission from him. "Don't worry, _scemo_ ," she said. "I'm sure your new bride will just adore that little thing you do with your toes. That's my comment!"

Benjamin fumed, but he seemed truly happy at the same time. "I have less than six months to pick a girl from a gaggle of idiots and you're laughing at me!"

Arianna nodded delightfully while Taru asked, "Which family?"

"The DeLauncets," Benjamin answered hastily before turning back to Arianna. "I'm almost inclined to bring you home to my mother, just to watch her head explode."

Arianna never stopped smiling. "I've won over much harder women than your mother. There are a few Antivan Crows whose mothers wished I was available."

There was a pause as everyone tried to understand her final sentence. Finally, Samantha said, "But you are available, Ari."

"Yes!" Arianna smiled at her friend. "Just like you are."

Samantha felt her body flush. What had Arianna just said? What had she implied? Did she know about Corbinian? Was Arianna secretly pining for someone that Samantha didn't know? Samantha glanced to the corner and wished Corbinian's ghost would turn real, ripping his arm away from that golden plate and striding across the room to join her on the cushion. What would he say in this moment?

Samantha turned to Arianna and said, "Yes, but I don't have your reputation."

Arianna threw her head back and laughed heartily. Taru giggled quietly, her violet gaze drifting down to her delicate hands which were still folded in her lap. Sophine watched Lady Taru with apparent curiosity, and Samantha couldn't figure out why her friend had taken such an interest in the Orlesian girl.

"What do you have against marriage?" Vincent asked Benjamin, and Samantha wondered why he had waited to marry. He seemed like the type of boy who grew up to be married.

Benjamin lifted up his palm, and counted the reason on his fingers. "Well, for one, it's archaic. Two, I have a woman who nags me all the time – my mother. Three, if I need an heir, I'll pick one of my cousins. And four, this _wife_ would probably expect me to spend _time_ with her. Listening to her talk about _shoes_ and _flowers_."

Arianna laughed, but Taru's face pinched in confusion. "You are a strange man."

"Yes, you have some funny ideas, Benji," Vincent said loftily. "Marriage isn't about producing an heir or gaining another mother. It's about companionship. Friendship. And... yes, okay, love."

Taru smiled at him dreamily, but Samantha felt a lump rise in her throat, and she had to turn away, refocusing her eyes out of the window into the grey sky, thick with clouds. White. Grey. Brown. Nothing had shape, just blotches of color obscured by the morning's rain droplets that still clung to the glass of the window.

Arianna pursed her lips, scrutinizing Samantha openly. "I think it's Sammie's turn."

Samantha turned to the group, finding the rest staring at her and only Sophine's gaze was sympathetic. The rest were expectant. "Benji gets to decide—"

"And I choose you, Ari," Benjamin announced, turning about on his cushion.

Samantha blinked with relief, but Arianna didn't miss a thing, lingering on Samantha before she looked back to Benjamin. "Me?"

Benjamin nodded, lifting his wine glass to his lips. "And make it good."

"Oh, I have a really good one, Benji." She said devilishly. "My family recently lost a good deal of coin. It seems that my uncle, who took control of the family's finances after the death of my father, put money into a mine. Not too long ago, that mine... well, it blew up. Just like the Kirkwall Chantry!"

Taru the Mortified brought her delicate hand to her chest again while Vincent patted her knee. He said, "That's in poor taste, Ari."

"What?" Arianna asked innocently. "It was an apt analogy, no?"

"I don't know," Vincent asked, annoyed. "Did some rogue apostate blow up your mine?"

Arianna's mouth turned down to a thoughtful frown. "As a matter of fact, yes." But her smile returned almost immediately. "But that's not important. The important part was that we discovered that it was a slave mine! Run by the Crows! Exciting, no?"

Samantha couldn't help the stare she and Sophine shared. The mine. The explosion. The Crows... Samantha thought of Keis' letter, and for a moment, lost in Sophine's spring green eyes, she wondered if, in one way or another, Corbinian would dominate every conversation she would ever have until the moment he returned.

Vincent shook his head in disbelief. "Your family had money in a slave mine? What a scandal!"

"We didn't know!" Arianna protested.

"Like that matters," Benjamin said sardonically. "That's the kind of thing that gets you exiled from Starkhaven – hells, from the Free Marches!"

Arianna harrumphed.

"In Orlais, your uncle would have been cast out of the family," Taru said importantly.

"Ansburg, too," Sophine added.

Arianna smiled sweetly. "Oh, he was cast out all right. Our lawyers gave him to the Crows in exchange for cashing out of the mine. ’Tis a shame, too. We took a loss."

Taru's eyes widened so much that Samantha thought they would tip forward and fall right out of her head. Vincent scoffed in disbelief and even Benjamin seemed disturbed. Sophine just shook her head, as though this wasn't surprising to her in the slightest.

"When did you learn of this, Ari?" Samantha asked reproachfully.

"A few months ago," her friend replied. "But the incident happened years ago. The Crows keep their secrets well."

Samantha tried to imagine Corbinian running from the mine, the billowing dust and smoke chasing him down.

"Sammie?" Arianna asked, watching Samantha carefully. "Do you have a comment?"

Samantha's lips parted, to speak, to scream, to cry out to the heavens, to the Maker, to the world, that Corbinian had been there. That, in a way, she had been there, too. That she was still there. That she would remain there until she heard of the next place where Corbinian had been. Then she would be in that place. Stuck, unstuck, and stuck again. She wanted to say something clever or glib, but an image of a bronze plaque flashed through her mind, halting her words.

_If I give you my hands and they burst into flame, do not jump, for the fear is what shall burn you._

Corbinian's warmth radiated from the glass display case, the wristplate aglow with longing, with sadness, with loneliness, with fear. He was all alone in a world filled with rogue apostates and slavers and demons. Of a world so terrifying, Samantha couldn't fathom it. Her friends stayed silent, waiting and watching, and Samantha took that moment to pull a long drink from her goblet. Small scratching noises drifted over from the Death Watch Beetle's cage, its furry legs rubbing against its wooden perch as it slowly climbed. Samantha felt a prickle come to her eye.

But then Sophine said casually, "It's not surprisingly at all, really. The Crows recruit regularly from the Dales, which harbor wild children that roam in packs likes wolves. Some of them turn out to be mages, and some of them are rather... unstable. I bet it was something like that."

"Apostate _children_?" Vincent exclaimed, clearly shocked. "That's more dangerous than an adult! They are not like us. They are sick – they should be locked up!"

Sophine laughed. "And who should round them up? The Chantry of Antiva? Ansburg? Maybe Ostwick? Nobody wants these children, Vincent."

"They can't just let them roam free!" Vincent countered.

Grateful to be saved, Samantha spoke up in defense in of her friend. "The Templars don't care, Vin."

"Do you know something we don't, Sammie?" Benji asked skeptically. "Maybe the Knight Commander has shared classified information with you?"

Samantha's jaw dropped right as Arianna squealed with laughter. "Yes! The way you two stare at each other – so intense!"

Benjamin smirked triumphantly into his glass as he drank the last of his wine.

"The Knight Commander?" Taru the Intrigued asked. "That would be a big secret!"

Samantha shook her head vehemently at Taru, but Arianna ignored the girl's comment.

"The Knight Commander is old enough to be her father," Sophine said, sounding surprised.

"Oh, but he is not her father!" Arianna said mischievously to Sophine.

Samantha felt a flush creeping up her neck, but not from passion, rather from embarrassment. She and Ser Rayce Taaramäe of Orlais had a peculiar relationship, to be sure, but it wasn't anything like what Arianna was imagining.

Arianna caught Samantha's bloom and her eyes twinkled. "Don't tell me that you and the Knight Commander have already—"

Her friend's words provoked a significant reaction from the others, for they seemed quite enamored at the idea of Samantha Mayweather and the Knight Commander.

Samantha huffed, frowning at her friend. "Ser Rayce knew my brother. He thinks he owes me or something. _It's nothing_."

"Rayce?" Arianna teased.

Samantha rolled her eyes dramatically. "You're killing me, Ari."

Benjamin and Vincent laughed while Taru watched the exchange with some interest. Sophine smiled, but she looked uncomfortable. She didn't like keeping secrets either, it seemed.

Arianna's eyes lit up with excitement. "Has he written you any letters, yet?"

Briefly, Samantha wondered if there was anything Arianna was interested in that wasn't about love. Or sex. "Oh, _yes_! Long _elaborate_ letters written to me on dirt-scented parchment describing the new isolation chambers down to the last shackle on the wall!" Samantha leaned in closer to her friend who, by now, had flattened her mouth into a frown, recognizing sarcasm. "In fact, he says that I should come over for a tour!"

It wasn't a lie, really.

Arianna bristled in mild irritation. "Oh, sure. Make jokes like normal! But we know the truth!" She turned to the others, grinning in elation.

Samantha knew her friend was trying to rile her up, but Vincent and Taru were exchanging glances that Samantha recognized – they were going to talk about this to everyone they knew, recounting every word of Samantha's non-denial denial. She had to say something.

"There is nothing romantic between Ser Rayce and me. He feels he owes me a debt. That is why he favors me, as you say." Almost absently, she added, "He doesn't realize that he is wrong."

Arianna turned a clever eye back to Samantha, catching the slip. "And _why_ is he wrong?"

Samantha silently cursed to herself – why was she so bad at this? Secrets. Flora used them as currency, but they ate at Samantha's heart like caterpillars on a leaf. "That is between him and me."

"And maybe me, too?"

"So the entire eastern shore of Thedas will know?" Samantha shook her head, laughing a little. "You must think me a naïf."

"No one has ever thought that, Sammie." Benjamin laughed.

"Oh come on!" Arianna stuck out her bottom lip in one of her famous pouts. "You can tell me! I swear! My lips are sealed!"

"We both know that's only temporary."

"I open my mouth for men for only one thing. And you are the only woman I talk to. So..."

Sophine shook her head in amusement, her ire melting away. Benjamin tried to hide his wide smile, but Taru and Vincent both turned as red as beets.

"It's _your_ turn, Sam-mie!" Arianna tilted her head, resting her cheek against her open palm in wait. It was a very Antivan gesture.

Samantha needed to derail this conversation, because she couldn't lie. If she said any more, they would either see through the falsehoods, or she would blurt out the truth – that Innley had been responsible for the mage rebellion, that the Knight Commander had refused to make him Tranquil, that Corbinian was alive, that he had left willingly with the demon to save Samantha, that he may have broken the Oath, that the Ghost Chasers were real, and that Goran had been keeping it from everyone.

"Flora is returning to Starkhaven!" Samantha blurted.

"Oh?" Arianna's eyebrows raised into steep arches. "Why has she not written to me?"

"When?" Benjamin asked.

"I don't know," Samantha answered them both. "But she says she's coming back... with Sebastian Vael."

Vincent laughed incredulously. "He is in exile!"

"Exile?" Taru asked ignorantly. "Why?"

Benjamin spoke first. "Because his drunken idiocy was threatening the prince's reputation."

Sophine asked the astute question. "Why now?"

"Because of what happened in Kirkwall with the Chantry," Samantha replied. "Because of the dragon attacks in Orlais. Because of everything that has happened," Samantha thought back on Flora's most recent letter and how her friend had described what sounded like shameless pandering to a man who would never love her back. "She said there are a lot of lies being spread about the Champion of Kirkwall. She says that the Champion had no part in the chantry's destruction, and that some rogue apostate was the sole perpetrator." Samantha paused briefly before she said, "For some reason, Sebastian thinks the Maker has given him a sign to return here. To challenge Goran for the prince's seat."

Arianna started to giggle, which then turned into a fit of laughter so joyful that none of the others could help laughing along with her.

Benjamin asked her first. "What is so funny?"

Arianna ran a hand over her yellow hair, smoothing it away from her face. "I'd sooner believe Sebastian was coming back with an army of his own personal whores."

Benjamin thought that comment was hysterical, and even Vincent had to bring his hand to his mouth to keep from laughing too loudly.

Taru turned to Vincent and asked, "Well, is he coming back or is he not?"

Vincent shrugged, and Samantha felt surprised that they weren't taking Flora's letter seriously. "This doesn't concern any of you?"

"He will not usurp Goran," Arianna said plainly. "The people here, they all look upon Goran like disapproving parents. They may not say it out loud, but they have embraced their hapless, strong, silent, and cowardly prince, because things are just fine around this city. It won't be Sebastian they will reject. It will be change."

Vincent was nodding and even Benjamin's expression looked conciliatory. Samantha hadn't considered this line of reasoning at all, but aside from that, she had no idea the populace might actually choose Goran over someone else.

"Sebastian won't come back," Benjamin said definitively. "He's been saying that for a decade, and he'll keep saying it until he dies an old man in his chantry robes."

Vincent made a face. "He's needed in Kirkwall anyway to rebuild the chantry. Surely, he knows that. If anything, Sebastian should know his duty."

"The people of Ansburg like Goran," Sophine said tentatively, a faint rosy glow blooming in her cheeks. "They speak of him favorably. I know that the Lord Chancellor of Ostwick also favors him, though it could be because of his lack of military training. And he is not alone in that judgment; many will not welcome a new leader whose known associates are wanted for high crimes against the Orlesian Chantry."

"That's true," Benjamin said, sounding worldly. "Most of them hate that Nevarra has such a large standing army. Anyone well-known for their mercenary work likely will be rejected. That would present too great a threat to the Marches sovereignty."

Taru absorbed their judgments as though they were absolute truths, nodding her head thoughtfully with every word.

"So!" Arianna clapped her hands together. "Let's talk about the Knight Commander some more!"

With a sigh, Samantha closed her eyes, reopening them to spy the corner of the room where Corbinian's armor plate sat warmly inside its display case, beckoning her closer. She imagined Corbinian beside it, waiting for her.

It would be hours before her friends would leave. It would several more hours after that when she would dine with Goran and they would discuss Flora's latest letter for the fiftieth time, and debate whether or not Sebastian would actually act this time, or if, like everything else he had ever declared, this too would fall into the bottomless chasm of his empty promises. But then, after all of that, in the quiet of the darkness that permeated the palace at night, Samantha would tiptoe from Corbinian's room, passed Corbinian's portraits, down the stairs and passed the portraits of Corbinian's parents into the formal parlor where the beetle would make soft hissing noises, its insect-feet scratching against its wooden perch when it moved. She would cross the room to where Corbinian waited, glowing with his soft light – was it light from the Maker? – warming up this small corner where Samantha's heart lived.

_The Maker made you beautiful and perfect, maybe even for me._


	40. 9:37 Dragon, Autumn

**9:37 Dragon, Autumn**

_When I was a boy, one of my tutors told me that all places get their names from the way death greets you from within their borders. The Green Dales – death is the wild animals on the plains, he said, your corpse disguised amongst the lush green grass and tall trees. The Dark Swamps – death will dress up as your worst fears, he said, and claim you in a nightmare. The Hundred Pillars – death will come for you at the head of an ice spike, he said, jutting up from the earth._

_Goran had nightmares for weeks after that and eventually my mother dismissed the tutor, but I never forgot what he said. After spending all these years in the world, I think he was right._

_The desert south of Perivantium – the way I need to go to get home – is named The Silent Plains. Death claims you in silence, he said, because there is no living soul around to hear your dying screams. He was right. It's so quiet out here that I hear every pebble grind against the sole of my boot. I hear wind a good five minutes before it reaches me, and whenever something alive comes within a thousand meters, I hear it._

_The Silent Plains are a blighted land. It's like a cold desert. During the Tevinter Imperium’s rule more than a thousand years ago, the very first Blight ended here. The very first Grey Wardens killed the very first archdemon, routing the darkspawn forces, scattering them to the far corners of Thedas. They called it The Battle of the Silent Fields, because this place used to be a peaceful retreat. Lush and green and filled with fig trees and tropical animals where birds larger than a child used to fly the skies. The Silent Fields. But now it's a cold wasteland. There are patches of earth that are still scorched, either by the archdemon's fiery assault or by its disciples’ magic. The dry, cracked earth stretches on and on into an endless matte-grey canvas that absorbs every living thing thrown into it. Color, light, hope. There are no fields. There is just flat expanse. The Silent Plains._

_This is what magic does. It burns everything away. Magic makes it so that when everything is gone, it stays gone forever._

_It's midday, and I have to stop and rest. For a while, it'll be too windy to walk. I've been traveling parallel to the Imperial Highway, which I've never set a foot upon. It's not a place for someone who wants to go unnoticed. I see all sorts of travelers, and they move fast, on horseback, in carriages, sometimes on foot but usually in large groups. This is no place to be caught alone. Slavers, mercenaries, henchmen… all sorts of people wander the Highway just like Senestra said. They look for marks just like me._

_The autumn is fading away, and the wind has picked up, meaning that the plains have become hopeless instead of just gloomy. Although I am anxious to get home, I stopped in a small village, a border town to the border town. They called it Solas. I have no idea why; the sun shone there as much as it shines here, which is to say that it never shines at all. The sky is blanketed with a grey haze, the same color as the dirt. Anyway, I used the contents of Liam's satchel to outfit myself. He packed close to 15 sovereigns plus some trinkets that sold for another 10. While I was in Solas, I bought a set of too-heavy chainmail, an enchanted waterskin that refills every twelve hours that cost me close to 10 sovereigns alone, and a new sword. It's decent, but it'll never be as nice as my sword, One-Cut. This sword is more like Three-Hacks-and-a-Slash._

_Anyway, no one in Solas seemed to recognize me or ask me any questions. I guess they get a lot of people passing through. I admit, I slept in an inn for a month, eating eggs with butter and goat's cheese, thick slices of bread soaked in beef gravy, and bloody steaks served on top of potatoes mashed with milk. It was nothing like the food of Starkhaven, which is as rich as an Orlesian lord, but it might as well have been the greatest food in Thedas. Of course, I would suffer Starkhaven's Fish Pie at this point._

_Despite the stories, there are living things here, both large and small. There are these mammoth lizards that roam like cattle, lazily unfurling their forked tongues in and out as they waddle across the plain on their bellies – in Starkhaven, we called them dragon lizards, because, well, they are enormous. Yet they aren't scary because they are easy to avoid. It's the small things that I have to watch out for. Flying bugs, burrowing lizards, and scorpions – Andraste's stake, the scorpions! They fit in my palm, are the same color as the grey sand, and can kill me faster than a sword through the gut. They are everywhere, too. I see them during the day resting on the tops of rocks, and I hear them during the night as they hunt. They prefer the warmth though, and when I sleep, they mistake my warm body for rock, climbing across me in my slumber. One morning, I wake up to see a pincer out of the corner of my eye. I remain very still as I reach for my knife, but I am very quick as I stick it into the scorpion that is snoozing on my shoulder._

_I am alone again. And again, I have too much time to think. About where I'm headed, about where I left. About the people I have met. And about how they died. Why has everyone died but me? My family... mother, father, my nieces and nephews, the prince... The slavers and all those slaves... Senestra. Thea. Desh. Except Liam... Liam..._

_His absence pierces through my chest like a splinter that I can't quite find, and I wonder just where along the journey that I began to care for him. About what happens to him. About protecting him from everything that was impossible to protect him from. Did I make a mistake? Should I have not taken him to Tevinter? Should I have done things differently? Could I have?_

_This regret eats at me, nagging me at every moment of every day, giving me something new to stew over other than that fateful decision of giving myself to a demon in Sammie's place. The one decision that sent me careening through the world. It changed everything. It changed me. And now I am changed again._

Run _, Liam had said, and so I did. I ran._

_Andraste... if you're up there... if you're listening... please guide him through Tevinter. Help him to make good choices. Make what's left of his heart whole again. Help him to know that he is never alone so long as I remember him._

_Praying is all that I can do for him, because he's gone. I know I need to let him go, but I can't. That little boy's shadow looms over me at every step into the hard earth of this place. I keep putting one foot in front of the other and wait for the memory of him to fade but he's not fading. Nothing makes sense about what happened. He and I survived the Hundred Pillars in the winter! We escaped a slaver mine run by the Crows in the heart of Antiva! Things like that don't happen only for one of us to sacrifice themselves to a magister. I did everything right. I fought hard and didn't give up, and I convinced Liam to do the same, and yet I am here and he is there._

_Why did I let him stay? Why did I leave?_

_I crush my eyes closed and silently berate myself for making choices that, deep down, I know were made me for me. Perhaps that's what truly nags at me. I could scream from this torment, but that might draw one of those dragon lizards, and I'm tired of fighting. One instance a day is my limit, and the scorpions provide enough to fill up my calendar._

_After a month of walking, I start to think that I'm going mad, but it's more likely that I'm not used to being alone again. The swamps were bad enough, but this place... there's just nothing in every direction. The wind that sweeps across the plains kicks up the sand so that there is no horizon. My throat burns from breathing in the dusty air. My lips crack, resembling the earth; it's without color, without water, and without break from severity. There is nothing here but death and silence, and as that tutor implied, sometimes they are the same thing. Is it fitting that this is the last leg of my journey? Am I traveling through a metaphor for my own despair?_

_I take a draw from my enchanted waterskin and put one foot in front of the other. I must keep moving. I must keep going. If I stop, I'll surely die._

_One afternoon when the sun is high overhead – at least, I assume that the hazy greenish ball in the sky whose light is heavily filtered through the grey haze is the sun – I approach a canyon. I am not happy about this, because it doesn't look like there are any escape routes once I go in and it doesn't seem as if there's a way around it. I can see from here that the Imperial Highway has been severed just over the lip of the gorge, but the path diverges, running along the canyon's edge. I guess people don't go across anymore – they go around. I look across the canyon. It goes on and on as far as I can see, and if my memory of geography serves, this must be the Shattered Canyon. Dried up like a year-old prune, it drops down so deep that I can't see the bottom. Maybe that's just the haze._

_I sit for half a day trying to figure out what to do. Do I chance the Highway? Do I venture down? It would be shorter to cross the canyon than go around it, I bet. I wonder what might be living inside it – lizards, drakes, mercenary groups preying on caravans? – but what lurks within discovers me first._

_I hear the hiss come from behind me, and spin around to face—_

_Holy Maker! Darkspawn!_

_They look like corpses. Running, hissing, shrieking corpses. I half expect them to lunge at me like drunks, slow and ambling because of their thinness. I can see their ribs protruding from caved-in bellies. But they sprint for me instead. I reactively draw my sword, unable to pull off my shield in time, as I am unprepared for how fast they are coming at me. Once they get close enough, I can see that they are almost all muscle. One of them has a sword and it lifts it up with an ashen arm, the skin shriveled so badly that I can see the disfigured shapes of the well-preserved muscle and smooth bone beneath. It widens its eyes, and they are ragged, pallid spheres in decaying pits of tar. It opens its mouth, letting loose something between a groan and a scream. Its lips curl backwards menacingly, disgustingly, revealing a jagged line of badly chipped, half-rotten teeth._

_I've seen sketches, paintings, even sculptures of darkspawn, but none of those artists’ renditions give them their due. I've come face to face with dragons, demons, magisters, slavers, apostates, the demented and the clever alike, but these things are, without a doubt, the most terrifying creatures that I've ever laid my eyes on._

_But for all their threatening posture, they can't fight for anything. The one with the sword swings it at me so wide that all I need to do is step to the side to avoid the blade. The second one thrusts its axe forward, but any novice could block that and I disarm it easily. The third one jumps in front of me, but instead of swinging its mace, it hisses angrily, and some kind of blackened goo dribbles down its chin. And so I do it the favor of separating its head from its body, since it clearly wasn't using it anyway. The other two are so easily dispatched that I have to wonder if this is some sort of trap. Oh, Maker... their stench is overwhelming; sweet and foul like a rotting carcass lying in its own vomit. Aside from the overwhelming smell, I decide to vacate the area in case other more skilled darkspawn happen by._

_But the real problem is where to go. Everything in my body is screaming at me that travelling down into this pit may as well be jumping into the Well of All Souls, but the Imperial Highway is as good as climbing onto a dead man's pyre. I could walk parallel to the canyon along the edge but when I pull out my map, dismay settles upon my shoulders like a lead cloak. This thing stretches out in both directions, taking me away from Nevarra no matter which way I choose. If I walk near the Highway like I've been doing, it will be months of walking in the wrong direction, leading me into the Anderfels, where there are more darkspawn than rocks._

_I squint into the hazy distance, and I can see the other side of the canyon from here. If I can make it through the canyon, a canyon that I am mostly certainly convinced is full of darkspawn, then I could be to Nevarra City in a month. I think about those darkspawn that I just killed – are all darkspawn that easy to kill? Trust your instincts, the masters said. My instincts tell me there are no good choices, but I am taking no great risk by going into this canyon any more than I take by choosing the Highway or by simply being here._

_With a deep breath of the hazy air in my lungs, I take my first step. And it takes me down._

_They say that during the Battle of the Silent Fields, that the archdemon let loose an inferno of blighted flame that stretched so far and so wide, that it killed more than five thousand Grey Wardens instantly, incinerating them down to a fine ash. They call them the Ash Wardens. Their remains had the darkspawn taint burned into them, or so the stories go, and over the next hundred years, it ate away at the dirt, as if the taint can even destroy that which is already dead. Further and further the earth decayed under the weight of the Ash Wardens, eventually stopping about a mile down, creating the Shattered Canyon. This canyon. I think of all those dead Wardens as I step lightly over grey powdery dirt. Is this the ash?_

_Hoping to sneak through unnoticed, I move achingly slowly. Every step I take could be my last, and so I take them stingily, watching the ground, the air, and the shadows. I stop often, listening to the silence around me. Listening for anything. I hear nothing._

_I take a sip from my enchanted waterskin and take small bites from my dwindling rations of jerky and dried fruit. I have tied a long string around my waist to keep my scabbard from flopping away from my body, knocking into rocks. My armor isn't as quiet as it needs to be. My boots are worn down from traveling for months over hard earth. It could have been any one of those things that produces enough noise to stir my first predator. I am not sure what caught its attention, but I guess that I'm about halfway through the canyon when I hear it._

_At first, it's a faint grating noise, almost like those pebbles that plunk down from the canyon walls. But I hear it again, this time closer and it most definitely sounds like shuffling feet against gravel. I don't want to draw their attention, because where there is one darkspawn, the masters said, there are a thousand._

_I hear the skittering again, closer this time, and I hasten to skip over rocks and twigs, angling my body sideways through a narrow crevasse in the rock. Once on the other side, I search the grey landscape for any place to hunker down, but there is nothing here! I take a left, then a right, and then move forward, the canyon's maze-like ravines making my directional decisions for me and now I can hear more of them, the hissing noises sound like I'm wandering through a pit of snakes. To my left is a tunnel of sorts, and I duck my head under thick layers of rock, squatting through into a fair-sized chasm. There are several choices of which way to go, but once a darkspawn emerges from one of the pathways, I dart sideways, stumbling through one of the other choices. My shoulders bounce off the adjacent rock faces as I hurry through – left, right, right – don't get lost, Beenie. Keep going. Left, forward, keep moving, keep moving._

_Four darkspawn jump out from an adjacent pathway, and I hop to my right, crashing over a rock, scrambling up to my feet, sprinting now, moving fast, faster than they can, but another group of three cuts me off. Quicker than I can think about what I'm doing, I pull my sword from its sheath, and the ringing is so loud that I cringe reactively right before I slice through the neck of one of the hissing fiends. I pivot, turning my hips as I bring my sword around to hack another across the chest and finish the third with a thrust through its heart – well, where its heart should be._

_The group of four catches up to me. Turning and moving faster than I have in months, I breathlessly block incoming blows from their weapons – blunt clubs and splintered swords. I kick one away, turn around and punch another one in the face, swing left, right, turn again to slice one of their heads clean off – gotcha! I hop around, tripping the one with the club, and I stomp my boot into its skull, grimacing at the deafening crunch. Turning away, I take out the last two quickly, clean thrusts right through the chests. As I pull my blade from the last one's trunk, I notice bits of brain and bone clinging to my boot. I stomp on the ground repeatedly, feverishly trying to flick away the filth. Nervously, I look up, my hands shaking and the sweat dripping from my hair like raindrops._

Don't wait for death to find you _, my master's voice echoes inside my head, pushing my body into motion and I nearly fall backwards before my legs start to work. The adrenaline pumps through me, lifting my feet over the jagged earth and carrying me away._

_Some things are ingrained in us, and some things fade away, but there are those things that come back to us right when we need them. My skill with the sword came back to me just when I needed it, and that which is ingrained in me reaches for reason. For purpose. Was it the Maker? Was it Andraste? Am I supposed to go through this? Am I destined to return to Starkhaven, bringing this experience with me?_

_I go on for as long as I can, finally exhausting myself at what seems like dusk, through it's impossible to tell in this forsaken place. I take a long pull from my waterskin, and find a rock to lean against. I need to rest. My hands are still shaking._

_The days that follow are exhausting, for the farther that I travel into this canyon, the more darkspawn I fight. I hear them before I see them most of the time, which makes it easier – fighting offensively versus defensively expends less energy, and I need all of mine to survive every day. At least there are none of those infernal scorpions down here._

_One day, as I'm traveling through a dry and winding gulch, I see a darkspawn in the distance scampering across the path up ahead, and I duck behind a big rock to avoid notice. It – he? – seems busy, trying to get somewhere, and I let him go. Opting not to fight is the best way to save energy. After a few minutes, I resume walking, but I've underestimated them. Most days, the darkspawn that I encounter don't display any intelligence at all. Unthinking, already-dead monsters that lunge at me without thought for their own existence._

_But not today._

_As I round a corner, I run into a group of about eight, and at their center is a fat darkspawn. It's shorter than the others with a round belly and a sneer wiped across its round, decayed face. One of its cheeks is completely gone, and through it, I can see its back teeth, browned and broken. It grumbles out a laugh, and then brings its stubby palms up, moving its bloated hands around in a circle over its head producing a purple swirl of light – magic!_

_Maker! Andraste! If there's anyone left up there that cares enough to notice an insignificant nephew to a dead prince, place your divine hand on my shoulder and give me the courage to face the brutality of this place and emerge unsullied._

_I pull my sword from its sheath, pulling my shield from my back as well, and understanding that this may be the last moment of my life, I grip both until my knuckles turn white._

_I avoid the first magical assault by ducking behind my shield, but the magic sears the face of it to a scorched black – it can't take many of these. The foul minions of this darkspawn mage launch themselves at me, and I turn this way and that, forcibly slashing my blade through one, two, turning again, my sword meeting another blade in a loud clang. There are too many! I take a blow to my back and I spin around, slashing through the offender's skull, which crumbles into a crunchy mess, its blackened brains exploding across my blackened shield._

_Too overwhelmed to be disgusted, I turn again just in time to see another magical bolt coming for me, and I don't have time—it hits me square in the chest._ Andraste preserve me! It burns! _I cry out from the pain, dropping to the ground and rolling away from the darkspawn who are trying to stomp on me with their mangled feet – half of them aren't wearing boots. I manage to kick upwards, knocking two of them back until I can get back to my feet. But once I do, one of them jumps on my back and I flail around, swinging my sword outwards as I pass by another – slicing it cleanly through the neck – and another – ripping it open at its belly, it's blackened, slimy entrails spilling onto the grey dirt. It slumps over as I twirl myself around, trying to avoid the claws of the darkspawn on my back that is riding me like a pony. I comically trip over the darkspawn that has just slumped to the ground in time to luckily avoid another magical bolt of purple energy, and while I'm on the ground, I roll over onto my back, pinning the darkspawn to the ground. I see another hovering over me and it stomps a heavy bare foot onto my ankle –_

_Pain! Horrendous, piercing pain like fire within my bones rips through my ankle, down to my toes and up to my knee! I scream loudly, but even through the pain, my instincts haven't left me. At least not yet. I kick up with my other foot, my boot connecting with the offender's chin, knocking its jaw clean off, and it reels backwards and out of sight._

_I've dropped my sword somewhere, and so I pull the dagger from my hip, flip it around, and stick it into the soft slush of the pinned darkspawn's gut. I hobble up, searching for my sword in the dirt and finding it just in time for the jawless darkspawn to come back at me. The pain dims, the anger I feel at all unjust things claims my heart, and I don't bother with the sword as I raise my shield into the air and slam it down onto the darkspawn's head, bashing its face flat. It crumples to the ground in a heap._

_It's just me and the mage darkspawn. I throw the dagger at the mage's head – of course, I miss, but that doesn't matter because the mage had to stop casting to avoid the blade. While it ducks, I charge, letting loose a feral yell, bracing my shield against my shoulder, slamming into the beast hard, knocking it down, and before it can raise a palm to me, I lift my sword and drive the tip into the mage's face. It stills almost immediately._

_I breathe hard, gasping and grunting, my body fiercely alive and yet deadened to the horrors of survival. I look at my hands, which are covered in blackened goo, and in a fit of disgust, I drag them through the dirt, trying to clean them off, trying to rid myself of this, but it will stay with me for a long time. All of this will._

_Liam. I am now glad that you aren't here for this. That you never saw this. That you never saw me this way._

_Nothing is permanent, my masters used to say. But some things should be. This should be. I don't ever want to forget this, but I also don't want to harden my heart or lose myself in all of this evil. I am still Corbinian Vael, Marquess of Starkhaven, inheritor of all the land north of the Northern Gate and heir to the Golden Torch of Corin. I am engaged to Samantha Mayweather of Starkhaven. I am going to survive this. And when I am done, I am going to live. I am going to live._

_I pull my waterskin from my pack to find it damaged – damn it! It won't refill now. I drink the rest slowly, dragging out the end of my fresh water for a week. But when it's gone, it's gone. My chest burns, my collarbone aches, and I now have a limp. That darkspawn may have badly wrenched my ankle, but I can't be patient any longer. I have to run now._

_And so I do. And it's laborious. Fighting, hiding, running, fighting some more. I kill so many darkspawn that I lose count. Fortunately, I don't run into any more mages._

_When I find a path that actually winds upwards, I can't contain myself, dragging my body towards the ash-grey sky. The rock cuts through my worn chainmail, leaving my palms and knees bloody and sore. When I emerge onto flat ground, I can't help laughing with relief. I am alive! I am out of that wretched canyon! Laughing kicks up the dust in my lungs, and I cough, eventually coming close to hyperventilating with elation, but I am not done yet. Nevarra City. That's where I must go, and without even resting, I break into a limping run, heading south. When I reach the Imperial Highway, I stop caring about whether or not anyone sees me. I know that I look like the walking dead. I have filth and gore covering me from head to toe, my shield is a splintered and blackened mess, my sword no longer shines, and there's a terrible hitch in my step from my ankle. I feel tired. I feel angry. Maker help whoever messes with me._

_There are no guards posted at The Bridge of the Cleansed, which connects the Imperial Highway on either side of the Minanter. Its name was changed when one of the first Grand Clerics of Nevarra blessed the waters so that anyone who crossed would be cleansed of the horrors of the Silent Plains. It used to be called Peregrine's Bridge, so named for the first ruler of Nevarra who also happened to be one of Maferath's sons. But not the son who killed him._

_I stumble down into the trenches, submerging my hands into the churning, reddish-brown waters. Thought it bubbles over rocks like its boiling hot, it feels blessedly cool on my skin. The darkspawn blood that has been stitched into the lines of my hands lightens, but not by much. I lift palmfuls of the brown water to my face, closing my eyes and imagining that all the horrors of the Silent Plains drip off of me and into the river. The ash from those dead Grey Wardens. The bloody bits of darkspawn. My own blood and sweat. I run my hands through my hair and they come out black. I am not cleansed. I can't clean this away by myself. It sticks to my arms and cheeks and it knots in my hair. I could scrub myself pink and still feel it. Maybe it will always be there._

_I plunge my fingers into the soft mud of the riverbank to pull myself from the trench, and when I reach the top, I see a patch of blue in the sky. It starts out small, but quickly grows, the faint rays of sunshine pushing through. And then I see it. A rainbow._

_I drop to my knees and wonder if the world is full of signs that we refuse to see. I've felt for a long time that the Maker has left me, but maybe we were never together, not even in Starkhaven. How wonderfully selfish of me to think that he would favor me, that his bride would bless me and protect me because of my rank, my family, and my wealth. What have I ever done to earn it?_

Is the Maker working magic in the sky?

_I think about all the people in my life who have come and gone, those who I have forsaken and forgotten. How I treated so many as secondary, as though they were just set pieces in a grand play where I was the star. But I am not the center of anything, and all those whom I have loved – my parents, my brothers Goran, Sebastian, Liam, my friends Flora, Ruxton, Innley, Vincent, Arianna, and maybe Benji Garrity, but most of all, my Samantha – were the real stars for I have learned the most important lesson of my life here on my knees in the mud, alone and lost to the world: that my importance rests solely in hearts of those I love._

_There's something out there. A blurry outline of brick and stone. I try to focus on it, and lose my balance, falling over into a mud puddle. Get up, Beenie. You aren't done yet. Get up get up get up. I push myself up and squint into the horizon... Are those Chantry spires?_

_I can barely lift my head to know which way to go. My body doesn't want to move._

_Push yourself up. That's it..._

_I can barely see. I'm so tired that my eyes don't want to stay open._

_One foot in front of the other..._

_My tongue feels thick in my mouth, like I've got a mouthful of sand._

_One more step... One more step..._

_My amble turns into an elegant walk as I travel along Starkhaven's granite path, a small hand hooked through my elbow. We come to a stop at the fountain of Andraste and I turn to face my Sammie just as she lifts herself onto her tiptoes. Her bare shoulder feels soft underneath my hand and as the flyaway strands of her hair tickles my chin, her soft whisper puffs into my ear._

_You best not keep me waiting._

_When have I kept you waiting?_

_I'm always waiting for you._

_I forget that this is probably a dream. That I am collapsed in the muck, blanketed by grime, and probably dying from my wounds. From thirst. From all of it. None of it matters._

_She lowers herself down from her tiptoes, away from my ear, and turns her sparkling eyes up to me, so bright, like gemstones catching the Maker's sunlight. I lay my palm upon her soft cheek. And then my Sammie smiles at me._

_Please, if I am dead, let this be my eternity._


	41. 9:38 Dragon, Spring Part I of III

**9:38 Dragon, Spring Part I of III**

Service had ended only ten minutes ago, yet no one was walking away from the chantry. Instead, groups had gathered outside, chattering in hushed whispers. It was bad enough that politics dominated every social gathering, but now it had spread its way into every conversation. Kirkwall's doomed chantry, the Templars who overstepped their authority, the apostate mage who had been responsible for the deed, the Champion of Kirkwall who had aided him, and the Chantry's lack of response. If Samantha, as someone who rarely engaged in those conversations, hadn’t known better, she would have thought tensions were heightening, and that some kind of conflict was inevitable. It felt like a Blight of a different color.

Lady Fortney elegantly extended her parasol, lifting it over her head. "The Templars are doing all they can, and I don't think it's wise to hamper their efforts by getting ourselves involved."

"Too many fingers on the same quill make for messy letters," Lord Fortney agreed.

Lord Garrity smiled wryly. "Especially when the Orlesians are doing the writing..."

Almost everyone chuckled loftily.

"Indeed!" Lady Luxley tittered, shrugging her bright green shawl up and over her shoulders. It was a shiny garment, and a poor choice to drape over the sleeves of her satin dress. "The wheels of bureaucracy are the slowest to turn, especially in such times. We managed, and so can they."

 _Of course_ , Samantha thought. _We managed to keep ordering dresses and holding brunches_. She leaned over to Sophine, who looked bored. "How much longer must we stand here?"

Sophine gave her an almost-imperceptible shrug, sneaking a glance across the square to Goran, who looked to be in pained conversation with the Kendalls. Samantha had been rather surprised when the Fortneys had stopped her for a chat, but then again, she and Sophine were fairly important as well.  They were the next Princess of Starkhaven and Marchioness. As good as Vaels and near royalty.

"The Chantry will send aid to Kirkwall like they did here," Lord Fortney said. "Kirkwall could do with a little patience."

"Quite right." Every time Lady Fortney blinked, her eyelashes caught her veil, a thin black netting that wrapped around her face like a mask and connected to her high-crowned hat. "Maybe now they will see that giving their money away to foreign countries does them no good."

Samantha remembered that Flora's father had talked the now-deceased Viscount of Kirkwall into sending monetary support.

"And they shouldn't expect reciprocation. King Alistair is a generous sort, but he's dealing with his own problems," Lord Garrity informed everyone; he was always up to speed on the latest news. "The Bannorn would not take it kindly if he sent their tax funds to Kirkwall."

The ladies nodded judgmentally while the men seemed quite unrepentant.

"The simple fact is that Kirkwall's problems are Kirkwall's to solve," Lord Fortney stated, and everyone in the group everyone hummed in agreement.

Samantha wished she could get away, to another group would be a good start. Arianna looked to be having a delightful conversation with Lady Garrity, who seemed to turn beet-red after everything the Antivan girl said. There was a small group near to the Chantry steps: Vincent Tyler and Benjamin Garrity together with Lord Robaire Fortney and Lady Tyne Kendall.

The pair had courted throughout their youth and, now they were both in their early twenties, Samantha had heard an engagement was imminent. She had wondered if their feelings for each other were true, and not just habitual from being forced together over the years, but watching them, she saw Tyne sneak a smile Robaire's way, and he winked back. It was a small gesture, but one filled with secrets. Fun and perhaps naughty secrets. Watching them made Samantha's heart ache; she had had that once upon a time.

"They should probably just tear Kirkwall down and start over," Sophine said ruefully, interrupting Samantha's thoughts. "Shouldn't be hard. I hear the city is in shambles and the coffers are empty."

The lords and ladies laughed nervously. Tear down a city? Lady Fortney reached over to Sophine's hand. "Ansburg must be such an amusing place. Do tell us about it."

Sophine seemed surprised. "Oh! My apologies. In Ansburg, when a building gets too old, we tear it down. I remember one of the strangest things I ever saw was that nobility live in such old buildings."

The nobles tried to hide their offense.

"The buildings may be old," Lord Fortney said, sounding quite dignified. "But they were built by the finest architects in the land. Our estate alone has withstood a Blight, two Circle rebellions, and countless wars with the Qunari. Tearing down our home because it's old would be an insult to all that it's withstood."

"I meant no offense, my lord," Sophine smiled graciously, recovering well. "I like the old structures. I wish to know more about them. It's like walking through a history book."

Lady Fortney smiled the brightest. "I would be honored to help you begin your education."

"The honor would be mine," Sophine replied genially.

This seemed to set everyone at ease, except Lady Luxley who looked a little steamed that Lady Fortney had beaten her to the invitation. She tugged on her bright green shawl, which had fallen off her shoulders again.

Sophine offered a small curtsey. "If you'll excuse us, Lady Samantha and I are going to light a candle for those poor souls in Kirkwall."

"Of course!" Lady Fortney gushed and Lord Fortney nodded appreciatively.

As Samantha and Sophine walked away, Samantha heard Lady Luxley say, "Such a sweet girl!"

Samantha clutched Sophine's arm gratefully. She leaned over to whisper, "You are a genius." But being back inside the dark chantry felt like someone had pulled a cloak over her eyes. It all felt so different in there, so warm and inviting… like nothing bad could happen, which wasn't true anymore.

Once they reached the altar of Andraste, Sophine knelt down. She lit one candle, then another. As Samantha waited, she glanced back at the pews. There were still several parishioners, and Samantha's gaze caught upon a little girl. She was fidgeting. She had tiny hands wrapped in white silk gloves with raised buttons and lace trim. Her mother, who was standing beside her, kept reaching down and laying her hand on the child's shoulder, telling her to be still. As Samantha watched, she imagined this little girl's entire life. She could see it clearly, because it was her own.

She would attend the super-social brunches, would know which fork to use, the latest fashions from the best places, and her head would be filled with all those things that society wanted her to believe. If she was lucky, she would never have cause to question those things. Things like the plight of mages, which was all anyone was talking about. All summer long, at every party and brunch, conversation always turned to Kirkwall's doomed chantry, the Templars who overstepped their authority, the apostate mage who had been responsible for the deed, the Champion of Kirkwall who had aided him, and the Chantry's lack of response. If Samantha didn't know better, as someone who rarely engaged in those conversations, she would think tensions were heightening, and that some kind of conflict was inevitable.

Samantha was thinking of how Starkhaven was going to endure yet another hostile conflict when she was startled out of her reverie by the bells. They weren't the Chantry's bells, nor the Harvest Bells. They were too far away to be the Palace bells – no, there was only one set of bells that rung like that; it was the bells at the gates of Starkhaven. High pitched and urgent, each ring sounded in quick succession.

The bells at the gates were rarely rung; only when there was an unexpected approaching group – like an army. The bells signified that everyone in Starkhaven should be prepared – prepared for what was another question.

Aside from the little girl and her mother, there were only a few others in the chantry on that day; two sisters walking the length of the hallway, a chanter offering versus from the Chant of Light, an old weathered man wearing a straw hat who had been seated solemnly near the back, and a young noblewoman with her maid. All had been minding their business, but with the sound of the bells, individual business came to a halt. Samantha turned her head to the large front doors, and saw that everyone else had done the same. Some of the others looked frightened.

Sophine stood up. "What's going on?"

"Those are the bells at the gates." Samantha watched the two sisters pause in the hallway whispering to one another.

"Oh..." Sophine's expression changed to worry; she came from a military town, and so Samantha felt she would understand.

The clacking of hard shoes upon stone garnered the attention of everyone, as the two sisters disappeared down the hallway. The parishioners took that as a cue of some kind, and rushed for the doors, exiting in haste – all but the noblewoman, who had fainted dead away. Her maid was crouched by her side, fanning her feverishly.

Sophine got to them before Samantha could. She said to the maid, "Run to your estate and get a guard. Tell them they need to come get this girl and bring her home."

"Y-yes, messere!" The maid remembered her courtesies, even standing up to elaborately curtsey before Samantha grabbed her by the shoulders and shoved her away, calling for her to hurry.

"Do you know her?" Sophine asked Samantha.

Samantha looked down at the skinny girl. "That's Gwendolyn Fortney. She's always been a little sickly."

Sophine looked to the doors, still listening to the bells. "How long do we have?"

Samantha paused, thinking. "I am not sure. I bet Goran will send emissaries to the gates to find out what's going on. If there's fighting, we'll have plenty of notice. And we're in the Chantry. No one would—" But her breath caught in her throat before she finished that sentence.

The Ansburg girl paled. "You are thinking of Kirkwall...?"

Samantha opened her mouth to respond but the bells abruptly stopped. The common silence that accompanied the chantry was replaced by a great commotion beyond the doors, which were now closed – Samantha hadn't heard them close over the bells! She instinctively dropped to the floor, hunkering down by Sophine and Gwendolyn, who was starting to come around.

"Oh..." the girl moaned softly, trying to sit up.

Sophine laid her hands on Gwendolyn's shoulders, helping her to sit. "Careful. You've fainted."

"I have...?" Gwendolyn's voice trailed away, still a little blurry eyed.

Samantha’s mind flashed briefly to Flora. It had been months since they'd corresponded, though lately Samantha had felt she didn't have much to say to her friend. Flora had thrown herself into her archery, into training for mercenary work to help Sebastian in whatever way he desired. And in her last letter, Flora had said they she was coming back. Had that day come?

The chantry doors rattled, their hinges twitching under the weight. Samantha heard some yelling on the other side, muffled by the thick doors.

"What's that noise?" Gwen asked weakly.

"People, I think," Samantha said, still staring at the chantry's heavy wooden doors. "Probably trying to see who's come to the gate."

Gwendolyn lifted a limp hand to her forehead. "All those people! How will I ever get home? Oh!" Her eyes rolled into the back of her head, promptly fainting, yet again.

"Bloody hell," Sophine muttered, fanning the girl's face.

"Why aren't her guards here, yet?" Samantha asked nervously.

"Maybe they can't get through?" Sophine offered, sounding just as nervous.

"It sounds like a stampede out there..." Samantha's voice trailed away as she looked to the only windows, stained glass that painted a rosy picture of the chaos outside. She felt the familiar tug of worry in that space inside her that had been carved into a long hallway with pictures of flowers on the walls and faint noises tinkling from the far bedroom. "We should leave. Now."

"What about Gwendolyn? We can't leave her." Sophine gestured to the frail girl who was splayed out on the floor and beginning starting to moan again.

Samantha looked around and saw no one – not a single sister or chanter! Just when she needed them! She could have cursed her luck.

"We can't carry her through the streets," Samantha said. "The best we can do is put her in one of the back rooms and send someone for her."

The pair helped the young Lady Fortney up into a sitting position again.

Sophine lifted Gwendolyn's arm over shoulder. "Do you think she'll be safe?"

"I don't know," Samantha said, helping Sophine lift Gwendolyn onto one of the pews. "But if we all stay here, then maybe none of us have a chance."

"Don't leave me!" Gwendolyn whimpered.

Sophine sat down in the pew next to Gwendolyn.. "Samantha and I have responsibilities to the throne, Lady Fortney. We cannot stay here, but you will be safe in the back rooms. As soon as we are able, we will send for your guards."

Gwendolyn nodded solemnly, her expression changing from fear to acceptance. Samantha remembered the evening when Duke Vael had told Samantha's family about the Blight. He had been so confident and reassuring while masking his own concerns about Corbinian's duty to the Oath of Starkhaven. She saw that same countenance in Sophine, and knew right then that she would make a fine Princess.

"Right," Samantha agreed, extending her hand to help Gwendolyn to her feet. "Let's get you into that first room."

It was surprisingly difficult to lift the young Fortney girl – maybe it was all her clothing that added weight – and they lumbered through the main room into the hallway, turning into the first room they could. Gently, they placed her on the pew. Upon standing back up, Samantha recognized the room; she had received letters from Sebastian right there on the Maker's rug. It was a memory suffocated by secrets.

Above them, Andraste's stone likeness stared into nothing, and Samantha wondered if the Maker was watching _this_. Surely, if he stood by and watched the Kirkwall Chantry get destroyed, he would sit by and watch the Starkhaven Chantry burn as well. She had heard of the riots and looting in Kirkwall when the Grand Cleric, the First Enchanter, and the Knight Commander were all killed. She didn't doubt for one second that it would happen here, too.

"Do be careful," Gwendolyn offered, a little out of breath from her efforts.

Sophine smiled at her. "Don't worry."

As the pair dashed from the room, Gwendolyn called out. "I will pray for your safety. And the safety of all Haveners. And for..."

Her voice faded away as they got closer to the chantry's entrance for the great commotion on the other side was enough to drown out thought. They pushed against the giant wooden doors, and listened for the creak of their opening. But it didn't come. They pushed harder and harder, but the doors wouldn't budge. Samantha leaned against the door, pounding her fist against the wood and calling through to the other side, but there was no answer.

"Did they bar the door?" Sophine brushed back a strand of her flame-red hair that had fallen over her eyes. "That was quick."

"Must be some kind of precaution," Samantha reasoned through heavy breaths. "Kirkwall's Chantry was destroyed before the city was sacked."

Her friend thumped an open palm against the door, yelling her complaint through to the other side. "Well, they could have at least made sure it was empty!" She ceased her assault on the door and turned around, slumping against the wood in resignation. "I guess we're stuck here with Gwen."

"Maybe not." Unconscious of her movements, Samantha's thoughts directed her gaze towards the ceiling. "There's a tower. We could go up there."

Sophine shook her head. "We'd still be stuck inside the chantry."

"Actually..." Samantha pushed off from the doors, remembering all the times Sebastian and Corbinian led her into trouble. "There's a way to get onto the roof. I know of a way down after that...We could escape from there."

Sophine looked hopeful, but Samantha didn't want to tell her about the tree they had to climb to get down to the ground. Three storeys. At least, she didn’t want to tell Sophine _yet_.

"Come on. The stairs are way in the back."

Samantha kicked off her shoes and began to sprint down the hallway, her hair flying loose of the pins that held it back from her face. She was pleasantly surprised to find Sophine right on her heels, and shoeless as well. Samantha led her through a series of hallways until she recognized the thick wooden door that hid the staircase to the tower. If they thought that maneuvering Gwendolyn into the confession room had been difficult, then getting her up three flights of stairs would have been impossible – at least, that's what Samantha told herself to relieve the guilt of leaving the Fortney girl behind. Several times during the ascent, Samantha felt the urge to go back and at least try, but knew it wouldn't be possible to get Gwendolyn up the stairs, let alone across the roof, and then down through a tree.

"We're almost to the top," Samantha said breathlessly, looking up through the cobwebs that lined the spiral staircase. She lifted her feet again and again, almost one hundred times in their climb to the Chantry's bell tower.

Sophine was gasping for breath as well. "Thank the Maker."

Once at the top, Samantha looked around. It was just as she remembered from her youth. The bell was large, the tower was small, and the view extended across all of Starkhaven. The river was to the north, the desert was to the west, and the road to Ansburg was to the east. To the south was the Vimmark Mountains with numerous roads and paths that led to neighboring cities: Kirkwall, Orlais, Ostwick, and Nevarra. If anyone was approaching the city, it was likely from the south.

Sophine sneezed, bringing a hand to her nose. It was dusty up there. She looked to Samantha expectantly.

Samantha was anxious to keep going as well. "It's just ahead."

She tip-toed over dust motes and rodent droppings as she approached the giant chantry bell, which was as old as Starkhaven itself. The sisters and brothers of the chantry were tasked with its cleanliness, and the bell absolutely gleamed in the sunshine. Samantha decided that it was much too lovely in contrast to the backdrop of smoky plumes that lazily climbed into the bright blue western sky just inside Starkhaven's gates. The section of the city was where many smiths had set up shop, and it appeared that not even the bells at the gates could halt their work.

Just below, there was an intimidating mass of bodies as far as she could see, covering every square inch of the granite path and the grass besides. They were all facing south. Sporadic movement dotted the crowd as heads turned, hands went up and down, children were lifted onto their parents’ shoulders and some people were jumping up to get a better view. The noise was deafening, even from their perch high above, and there were so many people talking all at once, that Samantha barely heard Sophine ask her, _What do you see_?

Samantha squinted, trying to see to the gates through all the dust that had been kicked up by the commotion. But what she saw made little sense. It was a sizable group – most of them armored atop horses – but it certainly wasn't an army. Samantha looked for obvious signs of mages, and sighed deeply in relief when she saw that none were wearing robes.

"It's a group at the gates," Samantha called back to Sophine. "They look like fighters, but... they are just sitting there."

Sophine appeared at her side and seemed perfectly calm, her eyes darting back and forth, scrutinizing the groups from a distance. She leaned over the stone railing. "What are they doing?"

"It looks like they're talking."

"Isn't that...?" Sophine squinted, pointing off in the distance. "Nevarra's banner?"

Samantha followed Sophine's finger, and indeed she saw a small group, no more than four on horseback and one of them was carrying Nevarra's flag. The smaller group appeared to be sitting squarely between the larger group and Starkhaven's gates, and it looked like they were arguing. Did Nevarra know of an assault on Starkhaven and send an emissary to cut them off?

She leaned over the ledge of the bell tower and looked down the side of the building. The roof slanted downwards slightly just as she remembered, and every shingle was still perfectly intact.

"Now, where?" Sophine's question was timely.

At the far end, a very large oak tree stretched upwards into the sky. Samantha remembered all the times that she, Flora, Sebastian, and Corbinian had hopped from limb to limb, descending to the ground. Even drunk and during the midnight hour, she remembered how easy it had been.

Samantha pointed across the roof. "We climb down that tree."

Sophine laughed loudly but when she turned to Samantha, her smile disappeared. "Sorry. I thought you were joking."

"Don't worry; I don't think anyone has ever died from falling from that tree. Getting caught in an exploding chantry however... I’m fairly certain that's always fatal."

Sophine raised her eyebrows, gesturing down to her puffy satin skirts, which had been purchased only for visits to the Chantry. "Bloody hell. And I liked this dress."

"You like it now, but with a few rips in it, you won't mind throwing it out," Samantha quipped, lifting a leg over the bell tower's stone masonry.

Sophine giggled, shaking her head as she followed Samantha's lead over the stone, using her toes to grip the stone shingles of the roof for better footing. She held her arms out for balance. "I'm so glad we went back into the chantry instead of engaging in more conversation with the Fortneys."

"It was your idea!" Samantha called back, nearly losing her balance and teetering on one foot for a second or two before regaining her poise.

So there they were, two women from high society dressed in rich finery with large twinkling jewelry decorating their fingers, ears, and foreheads, with their arms stretched out for balance, scaling the roof just above the heads of the throng of gawkers. They would have been appeared quite the sight if anyone had bothered to look up.

At the edge of the roof, Samantha cinched up the hem of her dress and crouched down, lowering one foot at a time onto the tree's limbs, testing for stability. When she was sure she had found a solid branch, she reached out and pulled herself close to the tree's trunk, which was appropriately moist for the season. As she moved around, she could hear the tree bark catching on her gown creating tiny snags in the bodice of her dress. New spring leaves hitched in her hair and scratched at her cheeks. She could have sworn she heard a rip in the lace on her sleeve. None of it mattered as she shimmied from side to side, gripping the tree and lowering herself carefully. Every so often, when she was sure of her footing, she would look up and be pleasantly surprised to see Sophine nimbly descending without a word of complaint. If Samantha had to guess, she would even say that her friend looked to be enjoying herself.

Sophine would have fit right into the rebellious adventures of Starkhaven's youth, Samantha thought wistfully before pushing thoughts of her closest childhood friends from her mind. Innely was dead, but Flora, Sebastian, and Corbinian lived still. They had all drifted away, in their own ways. She briefly wondered if she would ever see them again.

The cool earth welcomed her scratched feet, and she silently lamented at having discarded her shoes in the chantry, because the dirt-covered ground wasn't soft, but rather sharp and jagged, littered with pebbles and bark chips. Sophine hopped up beside her, looking exhilarated.

"Let's go!" she said brightly.

Samantha smiled wide, but then remembered. "We can't forget Gwen."

"Right!" Sophine said, grasping Samantha's hand and pulling her forward. "We need a guard or maybe—"

As they rounded the corner of the chantry to the front, the mob that appeared before them halted them in their tracks. Bustling and noisy, there was a herd of people – men, woman, and even children! – filling the streets, conversing with each other, squished together, shoulder-to-shoulder. Samantha lifted up to her tip-toes, but it was no use, she couldn't see over the crowd to recognize anyone. Just as she was pondering how they were going to move through the mess of people, two guards appeared in front of them, looming as large as the tree they just descended.

"There you are, my lady!" The taller of the two tall guards, Rylan of Ghost Chaser fame, exhaled. His boon had been a position as one of Goran's Royal Guard Specialists – like Keis. "Why did you not return to the palace immediately? His Highness is worried sick."

She held up a hand to show she was uninjured. "Gwendolyn Fortney fainted. We tended to her, and during that time someone barred the doors to the chantry. Rylan, you must find a way inside – Gwen is resting in one of the confession rooms."

The other man, a seasoned Royal Guard named Naveen with deep bronze skin and snow-white whiskers, cursed the girl’s name under his breath.

"You know her?" Sophine asked in surprise.

Naveen sighed. "Yes. Miss Fortney fainted just last week in the royal gardens when a bee buzzed at her."

Rylan turned to Naveen. "Unbar the doors, but be quick about it, and get Miss Fortney back to her estate. I'll get Lady Samantha and Lady Sophine back to the palace."

"Alone?" Naveen gaped at Rylan.

The taller guard just scoffed. "I think I can handle it."

Bristling in irritation, Naveen retreated, and Samantha watched him as he lifted two very large planks of wood from the chantry's front doors. No wonder the door hadn’t even creaked when she and Sophine had pushed against it.

"Let's go, then!" Sophine's eyes lit up with determination, and Samantha was fairly impressed with her friend’s bravery; not just anyone would see the swirling mass of bodies outside and be willing to navigate them. It was then that Samantha felt that everything would be okay, because no matter what happened, the two of them would be together. And that brought her more comfort than Andraste ever could. The pair grasped hands, and Samantha set her jaw, resolving to make it back to the palace – to safety – and then find out just what in the name of Andraste was going on!

With Rylan holding onto her other arm, the three of them waded into the crowd. Samantha was immediately smashed against his hard metal armor for the density of the crowd was overwhelming the streets. Sophine was smashed into her as well as the Royal Guard Specialist barked at all those nearby to move out of his way.

A blur of faces passed in front of Samantha as she was pulled through the crowd, and after a moment, she heard a few choice phrases that caught her attention. Someone with a lowborn accent said, _I can't believe he's come back_. Someone else said, _The man with the beard looks familiar_. She was ushered forward in a lurch and a few words floated above her head: _exile, disgrace, Harimann_. She turned her head in the direction of the familiar name, but was pulled through a group of children who all reached for the ribbons of her dress, their giggling drowning out the voices. She flipped her head around, trying to hear more, but couldn't focus on anything in particular. Samantha was shorter than most of the bodies surrounding her, and she turned her head back and forth, craning her neck to see Starkhaven's southern gates, but her view was completely blocked by the backs of heads. Flashes of every color sailed by as she was maneuvered through a sea of moving people, her eyes unable to focus on any one thing other than the blue sky above and the granite path below.

But then she heard something unexpected. On the lips of a Havener that she passed was a name that she had known her entire life. A name she knew as well as her own. Before she knew what she was doing, she had yanked her arm free from Rylan's grip and released Sophine's hand, thrusting both of hers forward to claw at the warm bodies around her. She jostled unfamiliar shoulders as she pulled herself through the mob, barely focusing on the faces of the nameless strangers that she shoved away, singular in her purpose.

When she cleared the crowd, she ran for the gate but crashed into an armored figure. His giant hands gently landed on her shoulders, trying to calm her and push her back, but she fought against him, shoving him away and trying to see to the gate. She barely recognized Ser Rayce Taraamäe's voice as he pleaded with her to stay back, but the entire world faded away as she looked over his pauldrons and through the bars of the southern gates of Starkhaven.

The first person that caught Samantha's eye was an armored figure clad in black leather with a bow slung over her shoulder and her hair pulled away from her face. Samantha would recognize her in a drunken stupor! It was the ever beautiful, the graceful and slender – and muscular! – Flora Harimann! Samantha had to blink a few times for the sight of her dear friend sitting atop a horse and clad in a mercenary's leather from head to toe was jarring. That black leather that had nary a speck of dirt. Were her leathers new? Had she spent her inheritance on mercenary gear? She was armored in nicer gear than most Starkhaven guards.

Sitting atop another horse just to Flora's right was a rather strange-looking elf. He held a monstrous sword, which looked funny in his hands for elves were smaller than humans and the sword was as large a one of the iron bars of Starkhaven's palace gates. But that wasn't the most unusual thing about him: Samantha could see a stretch of tattoos that traveled up his arms, disappearing underneath his vest and reappearing on his neck and his chin. They were as snow-white as his shock of thick hair. He looked extremely unusual.

Flora didn't notice Samantha at the gate, for her gaze was locked upon the man in front of her who was arguing with another man. When Samantha shifted her gaze yet again, her jaw dropped.

She could scarcely believe her eyes. He looked older, but still stunningly beautiful. His hair was combed back, and his regal armor was polished to a high shine. She could scarcely believe it! He was here! And when he turned those striking blue eyes to her – Vael-blue – Samantha thought that surely this must be a dream.

It was Sebastian Vael.

But before Samantha could say or do anything, she was struck by the man that he was arguing with. He was sitting atop a horse that looked more like a prize steed, and though the man had his back turned to Samantha and it was so loud that she could barely hear Ser Rayce yelling at her to stay back, something made that man turn his gaze. He looked to be in mid-sentence when he saw her, his expression changing from fury to... something else. Something softer.

Samantha stopped fighting against the Knight Commander of Starkhaven. She stopped moving, she stopped breathing, she couldn't see anything else.

_Then if His plan should ever separate me from you, Sammie, I will move the stars from the sky, I will fight demons and mages and dragons and Qunari, I will cross the Fade if I have to until I am returned to you._

She was staring into the eyes of Corbinian Vael.


	42. 9:38 Dragon, Spring Part II of III

**9:38 Dragon, Spring Part II of III**

The noiseless breeze ruffled her hair as she pressed against Starkhaven's gates, staring out at the dream that Goran had been promising for the last seven years. Seven wasted years filled with blank spaces and hunger pangs, and still unsatisfied in this moment because of the gates. Those damn gates that kept her in and him out. Her stomach cramped, and she was certain that if she was strong enough, she could have bent the bars backwards, ripped the gates from their hinges, and flung them across the cobblestone path, so she might have crashed into his immovable body, melted into his dirt-stained embrace.

Sebastian shifted in his saddle, reaching up to prop a hand on the bow that was slung across his body. Flora's horse whinnied as she worked to keep it quiet, patting its neck soothingly, though her gaze stayed fixed on Samantha

"Lady Samantha." Ser Rayce’s hands closed upon Samantha’s arms. "You must stay—"

Samantha twisted away from him, dimly aware of her own voice as she shouted, "Let go of me!"

As she turned to bark at the Knight Commander, she caught sight of Starkhaven's citizens just behind the barricade. Were they surprised? Elated? She couldn't tell. Both Templars and guards were shuffling about, trying to keep the crowd under control, trying to keep them back from the gates. On the other side of the gates, there seemed to be two groups: one group contained Sebastian, Flora, and that strange-looking elf, and the other group contained Keis, Marke the Fereldan mage, and Corbinian. _Corbinian_. His skin was a deep bronze, his hair was long and nearly blond, and a short beard covered most of his jaw. And then he smiled; it looked involuntary – almost giddy.

One of the onlookers caught sight of him over Samantha's shoulder, and gasped. "It's the Marquess! It's Corbinian Vael! He's alive!"

One woman fainted, and a few others nearby came to her aid, fanning her face with their hands. There were similar instances of fainting elsewhere and some of the crowd were growing rowdy as they attempted to maneuver themselves closer to the barricade. Samantha could see movement in the masses, and worried for Sophine whom she had impulsively left behind. But Samantha didn't faint and she didn't move from the gate. Neither did Ser Rayce, and he patiently brought a hand to her shoulder again.

"Please, my lady..." Ser Rayce said gently.

Samantha turned a steely gaze on him. "I am not leaving."

His lips came back together and, from the way his features relaxed, Samantha knew without a doubt he would let her stay at the gate. He removed his hand from her shoulder and said, "If there should be bloodshed, I am removing you." And then he added: "My Lady."

Before she could smile at him, Corbinian spoke.

"It is I," he said calmly yet loudly enough so that those in the crowd might hear. "At long last, I am back."

"We knew you would be back!" a man shouted. "Thank the Maker!" A woman called out. "I knew he would never break the Oath!" someone else yelled. Several others whooped with joy, and Corbinian waved to them all. Samantha stood in surprised silence; was Goran right? Would the people readily accept him, even though he may have broken the Oath of Starkhaven?

Corbinian then turned to Sebastian. "Brother."

Keis and Marke had been keeping their gazes fixed on Sebastian, who looked from the crowd behind Samantha to Corbinian. When he spoke, it sounded as if he was continuing a conversation – in fact, Samantha imagined, she had missed a fair share of it.

Sebastian glanced at Samantha as he asked Corbinian, "You really told no one of your return?"

"I wanted to. But it is as I said before: I wasn't sure I'd make it," Corbinian answered sadly; he sounded tired. "And I could no more explain in a few sentences where I've been for the last seven years than you could tell me all about your life in the Chantry. What's important is that I've returned, as I always will, to honor my Oath to Starkhaven." The crowd cheered again. Corbinian leaned forward in his saddle.  "What remains unclear is why you have broken your oath to the Chantry."

Sebastian seemed gravely affronted. "I would not have left the Chantry unless the Maker gave me a _clear_ sign—"

"He gave you a sign?" Corbinian burst out laughing. "That's not fair! He didn't give me a sign in the entire time I was gone."

"You're mocking me, but I—"

"I'm mocking your quest to steal the Starkhaven throne," Corbinian interrupted, and the crowd murmured.

Sebastian shook his head emphatically. "This murderer's actions have ignited tensions between mages and Templars throughout Thedas!" Samantha assumed he was speaking about the apostate who had destroyed the Kirkwall chantry. "Starkhaven is too vulnerable, ripe for sacking, and Goran's hold over the Circle is tenuous at best. I _cannot_ sit by and let tempers flare. Not when I can prevent another holocaust like the one in Kirkwall."

"Even if you were right and the city—" Corbinian lifted a hand to point over his shoulder. "—which stands un-sacked behind me, were on the brink of collapse, you would still be unwelcome. You are in exile."

"Exile!" someone in the crowd shouted to thunderous stomping of the crowd. It was like they were a collective mind, and Samantha suddenly understood why the guards looked so concerned. So many had gathered that should the crowd wish it, they could trample over everyone and bring down the gates.

Sebastian didn't acknowledge the crowd's jubilance. His knuckles, gripped around his bow, turned white in clear frustration. "You are not listening to me! None of you are listening to me! I say again, a mage, an _abomination_ , has _murdered_ Elthina, the Grand Cleric of Kirkwall, and _destroyed_ the Kirkwall Chantry!"

"Kirkwall's problems are Kirkwall's to solve," Corbinian said resolutely, and many in the crowd murmured in agreement. Samantha turned around and noted many of them nodding their heads. "This is the Free Marches, last I heard, not Orlais."

"No." Sebastian shook his head. "This isn't just Kirkwall's problem. This affects us all. He could be anywhere in the world – even here – and I intend to find him, and bring him to the Maker's feet."

"Excellent." Corbinian smiled wide, gesturing to Flora and the elf. "Take these fine people and go find him, then."

Many in the crowd chuckled, and Sebastian sighed loudly in exasperation. "I will not sit outside these gates and argue with you. The Maker has showed me that I belong _here_."

Corbinian nodded his head thoughtfully. "Just like I said. You have come back, against the law, to steal that which has been stripped from you."

"I am the rightful heir—!"

" _You are the heir to nothing_." Corbinian forcefully cut in, and someone in the crowd yelled out an emphatic "That's right!" "You forfeited all lands, titles, and inheritances the moment you took your vows to the Chantry. Your duty is to the organization to which you have sworn an oath."

"The Chantry is in good hands."

"So is Starkhaven."

"The man who sits on the throne was placed there as a puppet leader by an abomination," Sebastian said, and a number of gasps and yelps of anger bounced out from the crowd. Indeed, Samantha thought him brazen for the accusation, but he continued: "He doesn't rule at all, I'm told. In fact, I hear he hired a regent to rule in his stead."

"Be careful, brother. That's my other brother you're talking about." Corbinian gave a small condescending smile, but behind him, his fellow riders seemed irritated. Marke set his jaw, tensing the grip of the neck of his staff. Even the emotionless Keis shifted on her horse, her shoulders rising and falling in silent aggravation.

If Sebastian seemed intimidated, he didn't show it. Instead, he turned to speak to the crowd. "Goran took three years to rebuild the Circle – a project that should have taken less than a year with the help the Chantry offered. I know that there has been considerable political unrest; families vying for power, using the resources that Goran wastes to further their own goals. I know that he has entered into a political marriage agreement with the daughter of the Margrave of Ansburg – something no prince has ever done."

"That Sophine is a sweet girl!" someone called out. Another said, "Goran has done right by us!" Samantha felt a swell of emotion that the people would stand up for Goran this way. Had she been so removed from society that she hadn't noticed his rising popularity? Could it be true?

"Goran is not fit to rule!" Sebastian called to them, and the crowd quieted. "There are too many outside influences upon the prince's seat. Our position in the Free Marches has been weakened."

"You forget to mention his Ghost Chasers." Corbinian offered, scratching his chin thoughtfully. "Also, I've heard that he has held too few royal banquets."

Sebastian scoffed loudly. "You're making jokes? We face a serious threat—!"

"And that's why the Chantry needs you!" Corbinian insisted. "Maker! You haven't changed at all. You're abandoning them when they need you just like you abandoned Starkhaven."

Sebastian scowled – Corbinian had hit a nerve. "I could say the same for you."

There was a general grumbling in the crowd and while Samantha knew there were supporters for Corbinian's return, it was obvious there were detractors as well.

"You don't want to compare yourself to me, brother," Corbinian warned. "The reasons why I had to leave are much different than yours. Do the people you've brought with you know why your father banished you from Starkhaven?"

Samantha flushed, suddenly nervous. Sebastian shifted a little in his saddle. Flora and the elf seemed genuinely intrigued. The crowd quieted down. Corbinian wasn't going to tell everyone what Sebastian had done, was he?

"I was a just a boy, then," Sebastian said carefully, trying to hide his discomfort at the subject. "Reckless and foolish. If I could go back, I would change things, but the Maker sets us upon a path for a reason and I know why he sent me—"

" _The Maker_ didn't compel you to take advantage of a young girl," Corbinian said angrily, and some in the crowd gasped. The elf glanced at Flora, who looked confused.

After an uncomfortable pause, Sebastian replied, "That was a long—"

"A long time ago! Yes, so long ago, that you still can't own up to what you did," Corbinian said, the disapproval in his voice loud enough for all to hear. "This is the reason you were kicked out, brother. This is what you want everyone to forgive—or is it forget?—so that you may come back to take a throne that doesn't belong to you—"

Sebastian seemed to be growing angrier with every word Corbinian spoke. He said, "My father—"

"— _Is dead_!" Corbinian finished. "This isn't a Fereldan Landsmeet. The ruler of Starkhaven is not decided by debate."

"This is my home!"

"But this is not where you live," Corbinian replied darkly. "Are you going to tell your friends why you were banished? How about Flora or your elven friend, Fenris, is it? Maybe the citizens on the other side of the gate? These are the hearts you hope to win – surely, they deserve to know why you have to _ask_ to come back."

Silence fell over the gates of Starkhaven, and the tension in the air was so thick, Samantha could taste it.

Corbinian was clearly angry, and Samantha wondered why he had held onto his anger over this one thing for so long. She remembered all the times he spoke of Sebastian, his little comments about fights and duels—she’d thought he was joking back then!—but she had never suspected he harbored resentment over that night. She thought of her conversation with Goran about this very topic, and how angry he had been as well. The thought crossed her mind that perhaps to an outsider, this act that got Sebastian banished was far worse than it actually was. She tried to imagine a hypothetical scenario where she had been told a similar story about a friend of hers, Flora, Arianna, or even Sophine, and wondered if she would feel similar anger or if she would be as quick to forgive. She had to admit, it would have been difficult for her to pardon the perpetrator in the way she had so readily forgiven Sebastian. She wasn't sure why that was.

"You're afraid they won't forgive you," Corbinian said, shaking his head in disbelief.

To his credit, Sebastian looked somewhat conflicted, as though he was having an argument with himself inside his head. He stole a glance at Samantha. "I have begged the Maker for forgiveness. With the help of Elthina, I feel that He has forgiven me."

"What about me?" Corbinian asked him, his voice carrying over to the crowd's rapt attention. "Have you asked for forgiveness from _me_?"

Samantha didn't know what Corbinian meant by that, but Sebastian looked extremely uncomfortable. After a moment of seeming uncertainty, he carefully lowered himself from his horse. "The Maker sent me here with a divine purpose. Perhaps part of that purpose is to earn your forgiveness. Perhaps it is to earn the forgiveness of the people of Starkhaven. I am prepared to do both. But it's more than that. I was sent here to protect the city from the oldest threat that we have ever known. From magic."

Corbinian paused, and when he spoke again, he sounded more serious than Samantha had ever heard him. "No one can stop magic. Not one man, not a thousand. Magic is neither a tangible foe nor an ideal we can debate. It exists within a realm we don't fully understand, and cannot be defeated. We can only _survive_ it, brother."

"Magic can be stopped," Sebastian said convincingly. "Mages can be stopped."

"No. They cannot," Corbinian said sadly. "I took an oath to this city, just as you took an oath to the Chantry. I have spent the last seven years fighting to _honor_ myoath, but it seems you have spent the last seven years trying to _break_ yours." Sebastian opened his mouth to protest, but was cut off by the whinny of Corbinian's horse as he maneuvered in front of the gates. "You are a walking contradiction, brother. You stand at the gates of Starkhaven with mercenaries in tow claiming that to bring about stability and peace, you must first break the law. Why should anyone trust in you when you won't give the people the answers they deserve? You tread where you do not belong."

"I have _seen_ what's to come," Sebastian hissed passionately over the crowd's mumbling approval. "And I _know_ how to fight this new enemy."

"You are the only enemy I see here," Corbinian responded solemnly. And then a moment later, he also lowered himself from his horse.

The entirety of the crowd gasped, including Samantha who didn't notice that Ser Rayce had placed a gloved hand on her shoulder again. Flora twitched upon her horse, reaching for her bow, but arrested herself from doing anything further, clearly conflicted about what she was supposed to do. The elf sat atop his horse neither moving a muscle nor making a sound.

Sebastian's mouth dropped open in obvious shock. "I am not your enemy!"

Corbinian stood rigid, the sunlight glinting off of his armor plating. "Anyone who seeks to harm my city is my enemy. My Oath demands that we fight if you refuse to leave."

"This is madness! I will not fight you!"

"Then you will leave and take your friends with you."

"I can't do that."

Corbinian drew his sword, the metal ringing ominously. "Then know that it will bring me no pleasure to kill you."


	43. 9:38 Dragon, Spring Part III of III

**9:38 Dragon, Spring Part III of III**

"Seize the exile and the oath-taker!"

Samantha nearly jumped out of her skin at the sound of Goran's voice. She was so entranced by the guests on the other side of the gates that she had lost track of those who remained near her, namely Knight Commander Rayce—who still had his gloved hand on her shoulder—and the screaming throngs of gawkers behind her shouting myriad unintelligible things. She scoured the crowd, but instead of finding Goran, she spotted Sophine. Rylan was at her side, his meaty hands upon her slender shoulders, and he looked entirely displeased that Samantha wasn't at his side, too. Sophine must have known what Samantha was looking for and pointed upwards. Samantha followed her finger to the parapets above. She had to bring a hand up to shield her eyes from the sun, trying to see Goran on the ledge. She couldn't.

"By law, the exile may not return to the city," she heard Goran shout. "And Oath-takers are honor-bound to remain in Starkhaven. If any should leave, they face serious crimes."

Samantha felt a bout of panic – what was this? _What was Goran doing_? She looked back to Corbinian, but saw that he was smiling – smiling! With all the warmth of the Maker's sun! She barely noticed the others, but sound of Sebastian's horse turned Samantha's attention back to him and his companions. The exiled Vael was staring at the prince solemnly, the elf watched Goran with an expression that could only be described as tedium, as if he wanted to get past all this talking and down to the business of fighting it out. The crowd grumbled in confusion, and some of them called out that Corbinian didn't break the Oath, while others demanded to know where he had been and why he had returned now. But it was Flora who seemed unprepared; she momentarily lost control of her horse, who had whinnied. She was gaping at Goran openly, her smooth cheeks stretched taut over her high cheekbones.

Samantha had half-expected Flora to look weathered and wrinkled, her body changed by her decision to focus on archery, but her skin looked flawless, tanned and glowing and beautiful! Perhaps she hadn't transitioned out of luxury just yet? The heir to the now-defunct Harimann estate was as lovely as ever. Samantha supposed that it had been quite some time since Flora had seen Goran, and he had grown into a man in her absence.

Tall and lean, Goran towered above most, but it wasn't brute strength he exuded, rather grace. She imagined his intense scowl directed down at the group, his angular jaw set and his posture stiff. Samantha thought that, perhaps ironically, he and Flora would have made quite the handsome pair.

Goran then said, "The exile and oath-taker will be allowed to speak in their defense. To me and to the council in a public forum. Until then, take them to the royal dungeons to await their fate." And then he awkwardly added: "Er, take my cousin's... guests to the guest quarters in the palace. They shall receive no ill treatment."

There was a pause and the entirety of Starkhaven seemed to be holding their breath, waiting for the guards to take action. The guards barely glanced at each other before one of the captains stepped into the clearing between Sebastian and Corbinian.

He said, "You will lay down your arms and come with me."

Without consideration for its welfare, Corbinian threw his sword into the dirt. Of course, it wasn't _his_ sword, One-Cut. That sword, in all its mangled glory, was hanging on the wall in Corbinian's room. Sebastian did not react as quickly, and Corbinian looked to him expectantly. The exiled Vael rankled a little, glancing back at Flora and the elf – whyever for, Samantha didn't really know. She imagined he was gauging whether or not he could forcibly prevent his capture – of course, he couldn't. Slowly, he removed his bow from his shoulders and gently placed it in the dirt. It was then that the guards gingerly wrapped their armored hands around Sebastian's and Corbinian's arms, leading them both away from Samantha's view, and she lamented that she hadn't been able to really look at her Beenie, to talk to him, to touch him. Before she saw where Flora and the elf went, she ran out from underneath Ser Rayce's gloved hand and nearly crashed into a frowning and heavily-armored guard.

"Rylan!" Samantha reached for his armor plating and gripped the chestpiece. "Take me to the palace! Now!"

"Oh, _now_ I can escort you to the palace?" Rylan asked scornfully, muttering a curse to the Maker before he took her by the wrist and lead both her and Sophine through the crowd. She figured that she had put him through enough for the day without adding to it by antagonizing him further.

Samantha turned around to Sophine giddily. "Did you see?" she asked her friend. "Did you see?"

But Sophine had seen nothing from behind the guards, and so Samantha filled her in as best she could in between her own elated gasps – Corbinian had returned to Starkhaven! He was alive!

Vayan's Park had never been so filled with people, and as Samantha was dragged past the statue of Corin the Grey Warden, she heard someone say "I knew the Marquess would come back." Another asked, "Do you believe what the exile said?" to which someone replied, "Goran's a better prince than that exile would ever be." She granted a fleeting glance at Corin's bronze likeness as she passed, and the way he knelt, holding his sword to the Heavens, made Samantha wonder if the Maker had anything to do with this blessed turn of events or if it was the work of women and men.

Samantha hadn't spent much time with the common folk lately, and she was pleasantly surprised to hear their positive comments about Goran. Maybe the nobility liked to gossip about the young Vael, but then again, they liked to talk poorly about everyone. Samantha had to consider that it wasn't the nobility Goran had worked to serve in his years as prince. Instead, he had worked to restore order to city, rebuild the Circle, strengthen the guard, and all of that meant jobs for the lower class and protection for business owners – the very people who were flooding the streets at that moment.

By the time they reached the palace, Samantha had become impossible to deal with. She nagged Rylan to hurry, she chattered incessantly to Sophine, and she fussed with the servants about her attire—she didn't care that her dress had dozens of little snags from her tree-climb, that her shoes were missing from her hasty escape from the chantry, or that her hair had fallen from its dressings. All she cared about was that her Beenie was inside this palace! He was home! She tried to remember her courtesies to the servants and the guards, but once free from their fussing, she took off running through the darkened corridors, trying to remember how to get to the Royal Dungeons. She barely noticed Sophine in her shadow.

She turned this way and that, laughing with Sophine as she ran into dead ends, giddily apologizing to the maids who jumped out of her way, nearly dropping their stacks of crisp white linens.

It wasn’t until they passed a hallway in which voices were floating about that they stopped. As impatient as she was to get to the basement, Samantha halted in her tracks.

She heard Flora.

As Samantha approached the large wooden doors, the four guards outside the room nodded to her. She supposed that meant she could go inside.

"Goran is as stubborn as a mule and about as dim. He chased after me for years and never got the hint. The Council will see reason."

"But will the people?" the elf asked, his voice impossibly deep. "They seemed quite fond of him."

"The people don't matter," Flora said. "They just like a spectacle."

As old as they are, doors at the Royal Palace doors don't creak as a matter of snobbery, and so Flora was still going on with her tirade once Samantha had opened the door. The elf with the strange tattoos had to poke Flora to halt her lofty rant, and Samantha gave her a disappointed glare from the doorway. Who was she to come back here after all these years and judge Goran? The man had helped her family recover from the very women who had murdered his own! Who was she to speak ill of the citizens of Starkhaven? She hadn't been here for years! It was ungrateful, hypocritical—!

"Sammie—!" Flora's face flushed. She looked at Samantha with a mixture of embarrassment and joy, as though she weren't sure what to say. Flora then rushed to Samantha's side, throwing her arms around Samantha in greeting. They had hugged before, laced their arms together in friendship, even held hands, but this felt altogether informal.

"I have dreamed of this day!" Flora laughed into Samantha's hair.

Her happiness was contagious, and Samantha laughed in return. "Flora! Why didn't you write? Why didn't you tell me you were coming? We could have prepared, welcomed you properly!"

"Properly?" Flora laughed again. "You really think they would have opened the gates for us had they known we were coming?"

"Well..." Samantha didn't think she was being naïve. "Yes. For you? Of course."

"And what about for Sebastian?" Flora countered. "What about for him?"

Samantha remembered Flora's letters, the warnings, the talk about Sebastian being the true prince. "Goran has known of Sebastian's plans for some time. As has the people. It's probably the worst kept secret in the Free Marches. If he had but asked... made a proper claim—"

"Asked? A proper claim?" Flora chortled condescendingly. "What has happened to you? Don't tell me that living in this palace has turned you into a snob." Samantha felt confused, but Flora just shrugged. "Sebastian is the true heir and everyone knows it. Goran is afraid, and that's why he threw Sebastian in the dungeons."

What was this sophistry? Samantha was so surprised at her friend's attitude that she couldn't think of a single thing to say in response.

"Actually, I'm glad you're here for another reason, too." Flora took Samantha's hand. "Can you speak to Goran? Make him see reason."

Samantha couldn't believe what Flora was asking, and she searched for a response, her eloquence a blurry memory. She yanked her hand away. "I will do nothing of the sort, Flora."

Flora seemed confused.

"I'm surprised at you. Goran is showing you the kindness you deserve as Starkhaven's own, and you repay him with derision."

Now Flora seemed offended. "Locking Sebastian in a dungeon is no kindness."

Samantha groaned – why was Flora so stubborn? "It didn't have to be this way! You didn't need to storm the gates – we would have let you in!"

"Let us in?!" Flora laughed incredulously and the elf, Fenris, huffed.

"Your city would have let someone inside the gates who intended to overthrow their ruler?" Fenris asked, managing to look both irritated and bored. With that intense scowl with those strange tattoos, he looked to be a dangerous sort. "How is it that this city still stands?"

"Sebastian may have been exiled by his own father, but he is still Starkhaven's son!" Samantha countered. "But by coming back like this, he has broken the law he so ardently claims to respect."

"Not you, too?" Flora bemoaned, and in that moment, she seemed utterly foreign to Samantha. Not a Havener at all. She didn't understand this city anymore. She couldn’t. 

Samantha glared at her friend. "There's a reason you're standing here in the guest quarters of the Royal Palace and not the dungeons, and it's not because you arrogantly think Goran pines for you as he once did."

"Are you telling me that I am a guest here? Because with the armed guards at the door and Sebastian in the dungeons, it feels more like I'm a prisoner." Flora shook her head in disbelief. "This is _injustice_."

Samantha felt her control slipping. What would Flora know about being a prisoner? What would she know of injustice? She had never seen Innley in that dungeon. She never wiped the tears from his eyes as he begged her for freedom that she couldn't give. Samantha knew these things. Flora did not.

She took a breath. "Goran helped you after what happened with your mother. He didn't have to do that—!"

"And I know why he did it," Flora said distastefully. "If he thought that helping my family would indebt me to him, then he was wrong. I don't owe him anything."

"You owe him some courtesy, at the very least," Samantha said icily. "I always knew you were stubborn, Flora, but I never thought you could be so thick."

Samantha turned to leave, but Flora rushed to her side and grabbed her arm. "Wait, Sammie. I... I don't want to fight with you. We were friends. We _are_ friends."

Samantha considered her for a moment. "If we're truly friends, then you would never ask me to interfere in matters that could cause me harm. You would never ask me to choose between those that I love. Goran is the greatest of men. The kindest of souls. He has always deserved better than you, Flora. It just took him a little while to see it."

She yanked her arm free, and left her stunned friend—were they still friends?—in the doorway. Sophine was awkwardly waiting for her in the hall, having heard their entire exchange.

"Rylan came by earlier," Sophine said a little sheepishly. "Told me that Goran went to the dungeons to see Sebastian and Corbinian... it's just through there." She pointed down a hallway that ended in shadowblack darkness. Samantha recognized it, but had always assumed it was a service corridor, and therefore, had never ventured through.

Samantha placed a hand on Sophine's shoulder, the snags in her dress catching on Samantha's fingertips. "I'm sorry about that."

"I'm not," Sophine said. "Goran has told me about her. I think distance and time has given him perspective, but he painted a far rosier picture than that."

"He sees the best in people."

"He must have taken a really long look."

Had Samantha missed it, too? _No_ , she felt strongly. She knew Flora to be stubborn and confident, qualities that make her a strong and determined woman, but maybe Samantha had just hoped for a change of heart, an extra bit of softness where there never could have been any.

It was dark and dusty and Samantha sneezed more than once as they descended the thick stone steps into a windowless basement. If there had been wine bottles lining the walls, Samantha would not have thought much of the place, because it looked fairly fine, but the absence of decoration or any stores gave the chamber an eerie quality. It was too clean for a dungeon, she thought. It was certainly nicer than the Circle Tower dungeons; there was no dripping water, no shackles chained to the wall, no rats scurrying from the corners and no moldy smell. No, the floors were made of smooth stone, much like the walls, and while the only color abounded seemed to be grey, it wasn't even that gloomy. But then again, everything in Starkhaven was remarkably clean.

"He is my cousin, ser," she heard Goran say in the distance. He sounded offended. "And a brother in the Chantry. If I should come to harm in his presence, then what good is left in the world?"

"Fine. But I'm not leaving your side," said a man. His voice sounded familiar.

"Of course," Goran sighed.

Elated at having reached her destination, Samantha hurried down the corridor, turning at the end, but ran straight into a wall of gold. Samantha's palms landed on smooth embroidered metal which offered no reflection. She looked up and, unable to help herself, broke into a joyous smile.

"Keis!"

"What?" Keis answered, somewhat confused. "I said I'd be back."

"Well, yes, but—aren't you glad to see me? I'm glad to see you!"

Keis gave Samantha a searching look. "You aren't going to cry are you?"

"I might." Samantha huffed. "It's more than I would expect of you."

"Warriors aren't supposed to cry, my lady. Not even when we're happy." She turned her steely gaze away, and Samantha wondered if there was anything in Thedas that could ever affect that woman. Was she surprised to see Corbinian? What was their reunion like? Did she smile? Ever?

Then Keis said, "They're at the end of the hall."

Samantha curtseyed and Keis resumed her watch – what was she watching for anyway? It ceased to matter as she got closer to the dungeon cells. She heard more voices.

"You are to stand before the Council, and tell us why you have returned," Goran said, but to whom, Samantha didn't know.

Once she reached the entryway to the dungeons, she was blocked by a guard. She looked up, and was somewhat surprised to see Marke, the Ferelden mage. His was the voice she heard speaking to Goran just a moment ago. Goran had allowed a mage to stand in his service?

"You must stay here while His Highness speaks to the prisoners. You will be allowed to see them after," Marke informed her.

Samantha bounced on heels impatiently, but Sophine relaxed, leaning against the wall.

"I'm supposed to believe that the outcome of this _trial_ isn't already set?" Sebastian asked derisively.

"Believe what you like," Goran said. "Though I won't pretend your chances are any good. You are in exile, and had you written, had you asked to return, you may have received different... accommodations."

Sebastian snorted. He didn't sound like he believed a word of it.

"As for you," Goran said. "You will also face the Council and the people. You will answer for why you broke the Oath of Starkhaven. Yours is a far more serious crime."

Samantha glanced at Sophine who was pulling bits of leaves from her hair. They both shared a serious look before Samantha heard his voice.

"I will stand with honor," Corbinian said. "The Council and the people will see that I have not broken my Oath. That I have upheld it. Every word."

There was a pause before Goran said, "I will leave you now. But we will see you both soon."

They heard his footsteps and the slamming of a thick door, and when Goran rounded the corner Samantha jumped on him. "What are you doing?! Why have you sent him to the dungeons? You cannot allow him to be executed!"

He gave his traditional pause before his most common answer: "What?"

When had the old Goran returned, Samantha thought angrily? "It's Beenie! You can't let the Council—!"

" _Sammie_."Goran seemed aghast, taking her hands, but she yanked them away just as Sophine placed a hand on Samantha's shoulder.

"He's just come back, we have no idea where he's been and what has happened! You cannot execute him!" Samantha cried.

Sophine draped an arm over her shoulders. "You never told her, Goran. Remember?"

"Oh!" Goran slapped a hand to his forehead. "I received a letter from my aunt, Lady Pentaghast, a few months ago. Corbinian asked her to write it. Apparently, Keis found him near death just outside of Nevarra City. They made it through the gates, and took refuge in Lady Pentaghast's care. Beenie told me that he was planning to return, but asked that I not tell a soul."

"Except he told me," Sophine said sheepishly. "He shouldn't have."

"No. I suppose not..." Goran flushed. "Sammie, I'm sorry I didn't tell you. It felt cruel not to tell you, but I've seen how you've struggle to keep the knowledge that he was alive from your friends. I didn't want to burden you further. And... I couldn't risk that you would be able to keep the secret."

Samantha couldn't necessarily argue with her inability to effectively lie. 

"It was very important to Beenie that no one knew that he was alive until he made it back to Starkhaven. He said that he needed to tell his story, to describe why he had left, and he couldn't do that if the people already had it in their minds that he was an oath breaker. So he stayed in Nevarra, regained his strength, and promised to tell us everything upon his return."

Samantha fidgeted. "When will he do that?"

"When he faces the Council; there's nothing that I can do about that," Goran said. "But there are many things that I _can_ do. I have announced that the trial will be held in public, because I have a feeling that the people want him back as much as we do, and the Council cannot refuse popular opinion. We know where he's been. We know what he's done to return. I have my scouts and agents who have amassed a detailed account of his journey. With all of that, popular opinion, and his testimony, I don't think the Council can possibly invoke the execution. Besides... don't you have any faith that Beenie will win them over?"

He will... he has... what? She sniffled, pausing like Goran before she asked him, "What?"

"We must do this. For Starkhaven." He smiled convincingly. So convincingly, in fact, that she actually relaxed a little.

"Can I see him?" she pleaded.

"Of course you can," he said matter-of-factly, as though she didn't even need to ask.

Samantha dried her eyes as Goran took Sophine's hand, turning to lead them away from the dungeons, but Sophine paused and smiled at her. "Don't worry." She sounded like Goran's echo. "Everything will be fine."

Samantha relaxed a little. It was amazing how sure they were. As they left, she heard Goran say to Sophine, "And you guessed about Beenie! I didn't tell you."

"It was all over your face! And you really shouldn't let me guess." Sophine giggled.

"You were very persistent. And you had that little wrinkle above your nose..."

 _Maker_. They were going to go through a cutesy phase, Samantha just knew it. She almost couldn't stand it, knowing that Corbinian was just a room away.

She turned the corner and one of the guards opened the thick door for her, but she hesitated in the doorway.

"I heard the rumors. I prayed they were true," she heard Sebastian say.

Corbinian snorted. "Your prayers made no difference, brother."

"You don't mean that."

"You know as well as I that He didn't bring me home."

"The Maker guides us in ways that we can't always see."

"Don't tell me you really believe that."

"I told you years ago; I'm not the same boy I was when I left."

"Neither am I," Corbinian said remorsefully.

She entered the dungeons then, and when she came into view, the two men turned to see who had come to visit. Sebastian was standing at the bars of his cell, and he paused at the sight of her, but didn't seem surprised. Only a moment passed before he politely bowed and then turned away, retreating to the back of his chamber. Corbinian had been leaning against the bars between the cells, but his entire body straightened up when he saw Samantha. He moved to the front bars as quickly as she did, and when her fingers found his, the world dissolved away. The grey walls and the stone floor, Flora, Goran, Keis, and Sebastian, they all faded into nothingness for the only thing that existed in the world stood behind a set of freshly scraped cast-iron bars.

His tanned fingers wrapped around the bars, his face brought to the gaps. Samantha wrapped her hands over his. Corbinian looked down to her. She looked up to him. What was there to say that wasn't written all over them both?

She let out a small laugh, the tears skipping down her cheeks as she threaded her arms through the grate, placing her hands upon his face. She imagined the Maker had watched over him closely, because His light had clearly infused Corbinian's every feature. His skin was so dark and his hair was nearly blond. She reached up to touch it – it felt rough. More rough than she remembered. He had tiny scars across his forehead and chin, cuts that had clearly never felt the touch of a healer's hand. There were fine lines at the corners of his eyes and around his mouth when he smiled. Lines like the Knight Commander's. They all pointed down.

Corbinian pulled their bodies tightly together, with only the bars crushed between them, lifting her from the ground. Absorbing the warmth of his living body, tangible, as real as her own, Samantha closed her eyes. How many nights had she spent awake in Corbinian's bed or by his wristplate, hoping for this exact thing? She heard him breathe deeply, and thought that, even with the bars, nothing in the world could be any more perfect than this moment.

Eventually he pulled back, but he didn't let go. He brought his other hand up to her cheek to brush away the tears, and his palm scratched the side of her face, dry and callused from who-knows-what. He said her name again and again. "Sammie..."

"Beenie," she whispered breathlessly. "Beenie."

He smelled of musk and dirt. The scruff on his chin scratched her face and felt funny underneath her fingers. He felt bigger somehow, more dense than before – or maybe it had just been too long since a man had held her. He was so warm, and tall, she had almost forgotten how much taller he was. Even with the bars, she could feel heat radiating through the fibers of his tunic.

She didn't know how many times she had repeated his name or how long they held each other, mashed up against the bars before he kissed her. And it was like the world suddenly turned right-side up. His lips were still soft, though his beard tickled a little. He kissed away the years of fear for his survival. He kissed away her loneliness. He kissed away the darkness and the terror of a night survived so long ago, but one that still haunted her dreams. He kissed away the pain of losing him, of losing her brother and her family and her friends. All of the nightmarish things that plagued the world simply faded into the ether; the seven years that had passed, the demons and the Harimann's, the slavers and the mountains, the Chantry and the Circle – it was all behind her. And when he finished kissing her, Samantha finally felt as spent as all the women in all those stories.

When she opened her eyes, she almost felt surprise that they were standing in a jail, separated by thick iron bars. The world's chill had finally left her. She was home now.

It took effort to speak after that, but she managed to ask him, "Where have you been?"

"Oh," He laughed. "Here and there." Still the same Beenie. "My aunt says hello."

"Yes. Goran said you saw your aunt before me." She shook her head in mock irritation.

"If you could call it that," he mused. "I saw her healers more than her. And her butterflies. They were attached to a very large hat with little strings."

Samantha thought that sounded absurd. "Why on Thedas would she do that?"

He shrugged. "You know of her fondness for bugs."

"How long were you there?"

"Months," he said, his gaze drifting to her hair. "What has happened to you?"

"What?"

"Your hair," he said, pulling a twig from her fallen braid. "And your dress. You look a mess."

"Oh!" Samantha had forgotten that she and Sophine had climbed down that tree behind the Chantry just an hour ago. "I was...Wait a minute!" She slapped a palm to his chest and glanced at Sebastian, who was sulking in the far corner of his cell. She lowered her voice. "You could have told me that you were coming back."

"No," he whispered. "It wouldn't have been fair."

"Why not?"

"Because I wanted to see the look in your eyes when I returned." He raised both of his hands to her cheeks. "To make sure you remember nothing of the night that I left."

She held a breath inside. "I tried. I even asked for help from the First Enchanter, but... I remember nothing."

He searched her eyes as he was looking for a lie, but Samantha couldn't lie. Not to him. And they both knew it. Eventually, he smiled, beautiful and true, letting his hands fall away from her face.

"Also," he said, apparently satisfied with her answer. "You're a dreadful liar. If anyone asked, you would have been put in a precarious position." He pulled a twig from the ribbon around her waist. "What is all this? Have you taken a job in the stables or something? Because your employers are going to be really upset at what you've done to their uniform."

"Taken a job?" She laughed truly. "Beenie, you've been gone a while, so I'll forgive your ignorance in fashion trends."

"Fashion?" He chuckled. "Who are you trying to impress? The horses?"

"Horses are quite intelligent." She ran a hand over the bodice, and though the dress was completely ruined, she decided then and there that she would keep it forever. Just as it was. To be a reminder of this moment. "As I recall, you almost named one in my honor."

"Right... And I recall your general elation about that." He sighed in mock acceptance. "But I suppose you had to find some way to pass the time while waiting for my triumphant and heroic return."

"What makes you think I waited?" she teased. "You were gone an awfully long time..."

He reached out to her hand to touch her engagement ring, the wheel of decadence that still twinkled in the dim light. "Don't think you can back out of our engagement now! What is it that they say? The longer the engagement, the happier the marriage? You have to marry me. For the sake of probabilities."

Samantha couldn't stop laughing.

"Besides I had a few things to take care of," he said jovially, and his gaze drifted down to her locket, his grandmother Meghan's locket. "There was that demon – couldn't let her roam free. And those slavers – they had to be taken care of—"

"What, no Qunari? No dragons?" she added to the joke.

"Just one, but it barely touched me." Corbinian pulled her closer to the bars and she sucked in a breath. "So after all of that was taken care of, I headed here straight away! I mean, I did make you a promise. And," he added, "I never break my promises."

"I don't know..." she teased. "Seven years is a long time..."

He straightened up, cracking his knuckles. "All right, then. Just tell me who I have to duel."

"Another duel, Beenie? Think you're up for it?"

"However many it takes." He smiled that Vael smile.

The iron bars melted away and the darkness receded, brightened by the Maker's Light for surely He was looking upon them now. In fact, for one everlasting moment, Samantha felt so special that she was certain she had His full attention.

Like she was the center of everything.


	44. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

_For so long as men have dreamed, we have walked its twisting paths, always as close as our own thoughts, but impossibly separated from our world._

Our world.

Beenie once told me that no one ever truly dies as long they remain in a memory of the living. He recited that quote to me just as he recited the one about the Fade; they were both on some plaques attached to the Circle Tower in Starkhaven, his home. I have never forgotten it.

But I'm getting ahead of myself.

The magic didn't feel good that day. I mean, it never felt good. I had never liked using magic. It never felt like it was in my hands. Even when I had to heal Beenie and myself, even when I had to start a campfire, even at university in Tevinter when we would change the color of our hair, all of those little things still came from the same place. The edge of my thoughts, somewhere just out of focus, someplace that could overwhelm me.

I was with my master that day. We were doing what we usually did: trying to teach me to control my magic. It was hard for me. When I got scared or mad or started to feel like things were out of control, that was when bad things happened. The vibrations started small, little rumblings that turned into big disasters, destroying everything around me—like the beat of a drum that sounds soft as first, but soon echoes loud enough to the shake the leaves of trees a mile away. I could see it. I could feel it. It tore down walls, turned stone into dust, peeled back skin and tore through muscles and bones. It erased things from existence. It murdered. It's murdered everyone that I have ever loved.

Well, almost everyone.

My master said he could help me control it, but to do that we had to understand it. To understand it, we had to use it, to experiment with it. We had to know what it was capable of, he said. Where it came from. For him, it was like exploring the bowels of a dissected frog. For me, it was like staring into the Void.

He said that he would help me. And because he was a powerful mage who had shielded himself from my power, I believed everything he said. I thought that I could never hurt him. You can't understand what kind of relief it was to meet someone that I didn't fear I'd eventually kill.

 _Don't let them control you_ , Beenie said once. I didn't know what he meant then. It's too late now.

So, there we were. I was standing in the circle – that's what we called the practice space, funnily enough. It was just a big round basement room with a chalk outline on the floor. My master was standing just outside of the chalk outline. Candles and incense lined the walls around the room. He had also placed some little things on the floor at his feet. One was a doll, another was a cup... there were other things, but I can't remember what.

He had been meditating all day. That should have been some kind of sign that he was planning something. I should have known. But I was just a kid. I didn't think too much about that stuff.

I started out by doing some deep breathing and concentration exercises. I stretched and relaxed and he began casting some minor spell. I focused on his magic and tried to match it.

It was supposed to be about control. It was the same routine we had for almost two years.

But that last time was different. That last time I felt something... for one second, it felt almost peaceful, the calm before the torrent that ripped through me. It ripped through the room, it shattered the lamps and the mirrors, rattled the doors, and blew out the candles. And it kept going; outside the room, down the hall, up the stairs, out through the windows, shredding everything and everyone in its path until it stretched out so far away and erupted like a starburst in the sky. That eruption broke something that I didn't know could be broken. I was the drum. It came from me.

But I wasn't controlling it. My master was. He ripped it out of me so hard that I felt like I was split in two. When I opened my eyes, I saw that he was holding a knife and his hand was dripping blood over the cup and the doll.

I had no idea that there were people nearby, more than a dozen kept captive, alone, chained to walls in the surrounding rooms. I also didn't know that when they died, frightened and in terrible pain, that my magic would kill me, too. I felt their helplessness. My skin burned with their pain. My head throbbed with their fear. I was with them. We all drowned in it together.

I don't think I realized at the time that I was dead. One second, I was screaming on the floor, and the next, I was here. We all were. Wherever here is. At first, I thought it was the Fade, but it's not. It's different. We can see the Fade, though. It's like we skipped over it.

There's a sadness here. It's in everything. The ground is hard. The air is stale. There is no sun or wind or rainbows. It infects us all.

We all look like we used to, but different. Usually when I destroyed things, I, and everyone around me, would end up burned and bruised. My magic singed away hair until it felt coarse like straw. But not this time. This time, our skin has turned grey instead of pink, our hair has withered to limp oily strands, and our eyes have sunken. This place has changed us, warped us to its twisted shape until we look just like everything else here.

At first, we talked to each other, tried to figure a way out. But eventually, people started to talk less and less. Over time, it became more difficult to hear them when they spoke or see them when they walked past. They were fading away. They look like paper dolls now, like I could sweep them aside and they would flutter off like butterflies caught in the wind. Others have just disappeared. Some say that they went to the city. Others don't seem to care.

With each passing day, I start to think that maybe I'll go to that city. But I don't, because of one thing. It's the same thing that keeps us all here. The only thing that makes this place bearable: we can see through time. We can see everything that's happening and everything that's ever happened. We can see through the ages of the world.

I've seen great big wars around giant castles. I've watched massive storms swallow entire fleets of ships. I've watched winters ice over the mountains and summers melt them away.

I've watched the other people's time. I've seen their children and their parents. I've seen their families back hundreds of years. They've shown me their favorite places and their favorite things. Sunsets and crystal-clear lakes. I've gone to the far corners of the world to watch the smallest insects build the tiniest nests. I've gone to the center of the greatest cities to watch the craziest parties.

I also saw when I was born. I finally saw my family. I had a little sister. I had forgotten about her. My aunt and uncle took her after my parents died.

When I saw how I killed them, I stopped watching my time.

I watched my master for a while, but it wasn't fun to watch him. He's a bad person. I didn't know him at all when I was alive. My brother, Beenie was right about him. Well, Beenie's not really my brother, but he called me his brother once. I met him in a cage when we were both prisoners. He always helped me, watched out for me, made sure I wasn't getting into trouble with the guards. He is big and strong and so he knew how to survive that place. Once, when I dropped my food bowl, he gave me his. No one had ever been so nice to me.

I think about that night that I chose to stay in Tevinter. I think about how he begged me to go with him. But I chose to stay with my master. I was so stupid. I wish I could go back. I would give anything to go back.

I've watched a lot of Beenie's time. I've seen him as a young boy like me and also as a grown man. I watched what happened to him after he left me in Tevinter. In the Silent Plains when he felt so alone. In Nevarra City where he ate a lot of food with his strange aunt. I watched him return to his home in Starkhaven – the most beautiful city I have ever seen! – where he was thrown into another dungeon cell. But that time, he wasn't sad. He was happy. I watched his trial to stay in Starkhaven. I watched him argue passionately and win the hearts of the most stubborn of men. Men who were like the magisters of Tevinter but had no magic. Men whose hearts were made of ice, and yearned for nothing but authority.

At the end of the trial, he was allowed to stay. There was a big parade, and lots of people were so happy that they cried. He was given a big title and a position as captain of the city's army, and then he married a very pretty girl with long brown hair.

His cousin that he always called brother, the tall man in white armor, was offered a place in the palace, but he wanted more. He wasn't like a magister, but sometimes, he reminded me of those teachers at university in Tevinter. They spoke with conviction, and thought that what they were doing was right. Eventually he left with some woman and an elf to look for some mage. It was confusing; I didn't really understand why they were so mad. A small church got destroyed and a few people died. It was nothing compared to what has happened since. Beenie understood that the moment he saw the rip in the sky. That was the moment when he decided to never leave Starkhaven, his home. He took an oath, he said, to protect the people of the city, and that the tear across the sky was an unknown threat. Later, he told his pretty wife that he wanted to be a good example to not only the citizens, but also to their children.

His oldest son he named after me. I actually spend most of my time watching them, because when he calls to him, I can close my eyes and pretend he's calling to me. I pretend I am sitting next to him on the sofa after dinner, or walking with him and my siblings during an afternoon hunt. I make believe that he can hear me and see me, and that when he's teaching them how to make a fire without magic, that he's also teaching me.

 _Liam_! he calls. _Come to dinner! Get your sword! Where are your shoes? I love you, Liam._

He never said that to me, but one night, when he was in bed with his wife and all the candles were out, he told her that he loved me. Me. Like a real brother. I feel less alone when I watch him.

It was years before he discovered what happened to me. I watched him cry. I watched his wife comfort him. I watched his real brother, the one who looks confused most of the time, offer to send people to Tevinter to find my body. But Beenie said no. He said that I should rest. I don't know what I'm doing, but it's not resting.

I think I'm waiting. For what? I am not sure. I think I'm supposed to go into that city, the one in the center of this island, but it's a forsaken place filled with darkness. The others are drawn there, too, but they don't seem to notice when it hums. It vibrates. It shakes the world around it just like I used to shake the world around me. Like a drum.

I've thought a lot about it, and I think that when I used magic, I was touching this place. They say that magic is drawn from the Fade, but I now know that there are places different from the Fade.

_For so long as men have dreamed, we have walked its twisting paths, always as close as our own thoughts, but impossibly separated from our world._

Their world. And I'm separate.

I'm doomed to this place. This place that holds the magic that I used to kill people. I think that all those dead people came here, pulled here from the power of the magic. The power that my master can now touch. The power that ripped open the sky.

My brother and his family talk about that hole in the sky a lot. In fact, a lot of people in Thedas talk about it. There's a lot of bad things happening in the world because of that. Because of me.

I've been thinking about going to that city. I look at those blackened gates and wonder if any of the people that have gone in could ever come out. I've started to think that maybe the despair that I feel from that blackened city isn't all that different than the sadness inside me. Maybe I will find something in there. Maybe I will be allowed to leave this place. Maybe I could go back. I would see my brother. I would stay in his Circle if they would let me.

My brother once told me that the Maker watches His people on Thedas from the center of Heaven. But if He sees what I see, then He must be the saddest person in the Heavens. I've been watching the world tear itself apart for a long time. It seems like it's been a long time, anyway. Maybe too long. Maybe it's time go inside the city. To get away from all those horrible things. Maybe the Maker is in there.

But something tells me that if I go in there, I won't get to come back out. Going in there is permanent. If I can't come back out, then I can't watch my brother. I won't ever again hear him say that he loves me. I won't be able to close my eyes, and listen to him read me a bedtime story, or teach me to string a bow, or help me tie my bow-tie. I won't ever get to hear him say how proud he is of me. I won't get to hear him tell his son about who he's named after.

If I go away, I leave the only family I've ever had.

Maybe I can wait one more day. Maybe I'll go tomorrow. It's only one day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I may go back someday and tweak this to fit in with the DA:Inquisition storyline.
> 
> Thanks for reading. :)


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